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GIFT   OF 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •   BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •  DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •   BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


Jack  and  Charmian  London 


THE 

LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


BY 


CHARMIAN  KITTREDGE  LONDON 


Hark 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1916 

All  right*  reserved 


Copyright  1915 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  Octobei    1915 

November,  1916. 


To 

MY  HUSBAND 

who  made  possible  these  happiest  and  most 
wonderful  pages  of  my  life. 


382583 


^ 
I 
J 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Jack  and   Charmian   London      ......     .     .     Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

The  Oaken  Frame  of  the  Snark     ..........     26 

Her  Trick  at  the  Wheel 

Jack  Harpooning  ..........     ...     50 

Wada's  Dolphin 

The  Beach  at  Taiohae  1  78 

Marquesan  Tattooing     j  ..........      * 

Marquesans    Dancing      .............    102 

Human    Hair    Dancing   Dress,   Turtle   Crown,   and   Old   Men's  \ 

Beards  I  122 

The  Nature  Man  in  Street  Costume  J 

Snark  at  Tahiti  -| 

Double  Canoe,  Bora  Bora  I      ........  ,     ...   156 

"Porpoises!"  J 

Off  for  Tahaa  with  Tehei  \  17ft 

Pahia,  Bora-Bora  / 

From    left    to  right:    Vaega,    Mrs.    London,    Mr.    Morrison,  "j 

Tuimanua  I    onA 

Off   Manua 
Upolu  J 

Pa  Williams  1  224 

Village  Beau,  Samoa  J 

Lava-choked  Graves  \  O-A 

Lava  Pouring  into  the  Sea,  Savaii  /   ' 


^| 
> 
J 


Samoan 

Bush  Woman,  Tana  >      .............  275 

Taupous,  Samoa 

Port  Resolution,  Tana          ") 

The  Skipper,  "After  Suva"   ^     ............  304 

The  Puzzled  Monkey-Brow  J 

Houseboys  at  Pennduffyrn  "I  o98 

A  Dream  of  the  Southern  Seas  /   ' 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Tambo  Canoe  House  "1 

Mangrove  j .11...  356 

A  Kingpost  and  a  King 375 

Ugi ,.,    • 400 

The  Impact  of  Civilisation  1 

Houseboys  at  Pennduffryn    /••••••••'•••   430 

Guadalcanal  ^ 

The  Squall  off  Lord  Howe  L ,  454 

A  Cannibal  Venice  J 

Snark  Careened  at  Meringe  1 

The  Rembrandt  Skipper  I ,    ..  430 

A  Polynesian  Prince 


THE  BEGINNING 

It  was  all  due  to  Captain  Joshua  Slocum  and  his  Spray, 
plus  our  own  wayward  tendencies.  We  read  him  aloud  to 
the  1905  camp  children  at  Wake  Robin  Lodge,  in  the  Val- 
ley of  the  Moon,  as  we  sat  in  the  hot  sun  resting  between 
water  fights  and  games  of  tag  in  the  deep  swimming  pool. 
Sailing  Alone  Around  the  World  was  the  name  of  the  book, 
and  when  Jack  closed  the  cover  on  the  last  chapter,  there 
was  a  new  idea  looking  out  of  his  eyes.  Joshua  Slocum  did 
it  all  alone,  in  a  thirty-seven-foot  sloop.  Why  could  not  we 
do  it,  in  a  somewhat  larger  boat,  with  a  little  more  sociable 
crew?  Jack  and  I  loved  the  water,  and  a  long  voyage  was 
our  dream.  He  and  Roscoe  fell  at  once  to  discussing  the 
scheme,  the  rest  of  us  listening  fascinated. 

This  was  a  few  months  before  we  were  married.  "Say 
we  start  five  years  from  now,"  figured  Jack,  who  always 
seems  to  be  making  plans  for  a  tangible  eternity.  "We'll 
build  our  house  on  the  ranch  and  get  the  place  started  with 
orchard  and  vines  and  livestock,  at  the  same  time  going 
ahead  with  boat-drawings  and  building  a  yacht  to  suit. 
Five  years  will  not  be  too  much  time." 

Then,  privily,  he  asked  what  I  thought  of  it.  Too  good 
to  be  true,  was  what  I  thought;  but  why  wait  so  long? 
We'd  never  be  younger  than  we  were,  and,  besides,  what 
was  the  good  of  putting  up  a  home  and  leaving  it  for  seven 
years? — seven  years  being  the  time  roughly  calculated  to 
carry  out  our  far-reaching  plan.  I  won  the  day. 

And  the  boat.  She  should  be  ketch-rigged,  like  the  Eng- 
lish fishing  boats  on  the  Dogger  Bank.  We  had  never  seen 

vii 


viii  THE  BEGINNING 

a  ketch,  but  knew  that  for  our  purpose  it  combined  the 
virtues  of  both  schooner  and  yawl.  There  should  be  six  feet 
of  head-room,  under  flush  decks  unbroken  save  by  com- 
panionway,  skylights,  and  hatches.  The  roomy  cockpit 
should  be  sunk  deep  beneath  the  deck,  high-railed  and  self- 
bailing.  There  should  be  no  hold,  all  space  being  occupied 
by  accoutrement,  and  engines — one  a  seventy  horse-power 
auxiliary,  and  one  five  horse-power  to  spin  out  electric  lights 
and  fans.  Forty-five  feet  should  be  her  water-line,  with 
a  length  over  all  of  fifty-seven  feet.  She  should  draw  six 
feet,  with  no  inside  ballast,  but  with  fifty  tons  of  iron  on 
the  keel.  There  should  be  used  only  the  strongest  and  best 
materials  of  every  kind — a  solid,  serviceable  deep-sea  craft, 
the  strongest  of  her  size  ever  constructed. 

But  we  counted  without  the  Great  Earthquake  of  April 
18,  1906.  The  vessel  was  already  begun,  and  the  iron  keel 
was  actually  to  have  been  cast  the  night  of  April  18.  Fol- 
lowing that  date,  what  we  did  not  suffer  from  damage  to 
other  property,  was  inflicted  by  post-earthquake  conditions 
which  made  our  shipbuilding  triply  expensive  and  incom- 
prehensibly protracted.  Everybody  and  everything  went 
mad;  and  it  was  nearly  a  year  after  the  delayed  laying  of 
her  doughty  keel  that  the  yacht,  unfinished,  unclean,  her 
seventy  horse-power  engine  a  heap  of  scrap-iron  from  the 
ignorant  tinkering  that  had  been  done  to  it,  sailed  from 
California  for  Hawaii,  manned,  or  unmanned,  by  a  more  or 
less  discouraged  crew,  whose  original  adventurous  spirits 
and  efficiency  had  been  sorely  dampened  by  the  weary  post- 
ponement of  departure  dates.  The  final  one  was  set  behind 
an  extra  week-end  by  a  ship  chandler  who  libelled  the  yacht 
because  he  was  afraid  he  would  not  get  his  last  bill  paid, 
the  while  Jack  was  settling  accounts  right  and  left  aboard 
the  boat,  one  pocket  full  of  gold  and  silver,  the  other  con- 
taining check-book  and  fountain  pen. 

However,  Jack  and  I  were  undaunted,  if  sad  and  puzzled, 
and  all  those  months  of  waiting  worked  hard  to  meet  the 


THE  BEGINNING  ix 

expenses  of  incredible  mismanagement,  going  about  drown- 
ing our  disgust  in  libations  of  poetry,  such,  for  instance,  as : 

"We  must  go,  go,  go  away  from  here; 

On  the  other  side  the  world  we're  overdue." 

Or, 

"You  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  off-shore  wind, 
And  the  thresh  of  the  deep-sea  rain ; 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long?  how  long? 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again!" 

I  am  sure  we  ought  to  thank  Mr.  Kipling  for  contributing 
largely  to  our  undauntedness. 

The  naming  of  the  yacht  was  not  the  least  of  our  diffi- 
culties. Friends  were  prolific  with  Petrels  and  Sea  Birds; 
they  even  dared  White  Wings  and  Sea  Wolves,  not  to  men- 
tion Calls  of  the  Wild.  Jack  recalled  Mr.  Lewis  Carroll's 
The  Hunting  of  the  Snark,  and  held  that  name  up  as  a 
warning  inducement  for  better  suggestions.  Such  were  not 
forthcoming,  and  when  we  sailed  for  Hawaii,  the  elliptic 
American  stern  bore  the  gilded  inscription: 

SNARK 
San  Francisco 

Now  the  way  my  Log  came  to  be  written  was  mostly  due 
to  Jack.  Be  it  known  that  he  detests  letter-writing,  although 
a  more  enthusiastic  recipient  of  correspondence  never  slit  an 
envelope.  His  friends  consider  him  sheerly  selfish,  but  I 
can  vouch  that  he  is  very  busy.  At  any  rate,  when  I  decided 
to  keep  a  typewritten  diary,  to  be  circulated  in  lieu  of  indi- 
vidual letters,  my  husband  hailed  the  scheme  with  acclaim. 

And  here  it  is,  my  journal — the  one  accurate,  continuous 
story  of  the  adventures  of  the  Snark,  from  San  Francisco 
Bay  to  the  Cannibal  Isles. 

CHARMIAN  KITTREDGE  LONDON. 
Aboard  Yacht  Roamer. 

Sacramento  River,  January,  1915. 


...  To  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


Aboard  the  Snark,  Pacific  Ocean, 

Thursday,  April  25,  1907. 

IT  is  too  good  to  keep  any  longer,  this  joy  of  living  that 
is  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  aboard  the  Snark.  For 
an  hour  I've  been  dangling  my  feet  over  the  edge  of  the 
life-boat  lashed  on  the  deck  to  windward,  watching  the 
purple  water  swash  in  and  out  of  the  lee  scuppers.  Our 
midday  meal  is  finished,  concocted  by  Martin  and  myself 
(Martin  has  been  and  still  is  a  little  worse  off  from  sea- 
sickness than  I),  and  we  are  all  comfortably  lazy.'  And 
speaking  of  the  joy  of  living  as  felt  aboard  the  Snark,  it  is 
a  matter  of  degree.  Martin  has  not  yet  come  to  feel  it; 
and  Tochigi,  our  alleged  cabin-boy,  has  succumbed  to  the 
effects  of  mat  de  mer  with  the  characteristic  abandon  of  the 
Asiatic.  He  can't  or  thinks  he  can't  lift  a  finger,  and  as 
there  are  many  fingers  necessarily  to  be  lifted  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  ship,  he  is  very  much  needed  in  our  midst. 

But  the  water  is  purple,  and  I  am  recovering  from  my 
seasickness,  which  seemed  quite  violent  to  me,  but  was  in 
reality  a  mild  attack.  Roscoe  and  Bert  have  had  no  nausea, 
but  a  heavy  lassitude  has  taken  the  place  of  ordinary 
seasickness.  The  five-horse-power  engine  is  pumping ' '  juice ' ' 
into  the  storage  batteries,  our  dinner  is  settling  in  the  most 
encouraging  manner,  the  life-boat  is  being  packed  with  staples 
of  diet,  for  emergency,  the  deck  has  been  hosed  down — al- 
though Jack  was  the  only  one  with  energy  enough  to  make 
a  start  at  it;  and,  joy  of  joys,  the  Snark,  under  mainsail, 
staysail,  jib,  and  fly  ing- jib,  is  steering  herself  night  and  day. 
This  is  a  great  relief,  because  several  hours  at  the  wheel, 
keeping  the  course  (south  by  east),  is  very  monotonous,  as 

3 


4  TEE  LOO  OF  THE  SNARK 

well  ss  t>mg  t'>  th*  untried  spine.  But  we  keep  a  wary 
eye  upon  the  compass,  and  of  course  set  regular  watches  at 
night. 

We  have  been  out  only  three  days  from  Oakland  wharf 
and  all  the  souls  who  waved  us  farewell  and  fair  weather; 
but  there  is  so  much  to  tell.  To  begin  with,  the  water  is 
purple,  and  such  purple !  Jack  and  I  took  a  trip  out  to  the 
end  of  the  bowsprit  this  afternoon,  and  sat  for  a  long  time 
watching  our  little  white  ship  cleave  the  amethyst  flood. 
Afterward  we  lay  over  the  stern-rail,  looking  at  the  red- 
gold  rudder  dragging  through  the  purple.  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  gorgeous  picture  by  Maxfield  Parrish,  c  *  Sinbad  the 
Sailor"?  The  colours  we  have  seen  to-day  rival  its  oriental 
splendour  of  indigo  and  gold  and  purple. 

Just  this  moment,  reminiscent  of  our  sally  out  on  the  bow- 
sprit, I  glanced  that  way.  Behold  Jack !  arrayed  in  Jimmie 
Hopper's  famous  blue-and-gold  sweater,  gazing  again  at  the 
purple  water  under  the  bow;  Jimmie  Hopper's  first  'Varsity 
sweater,  which  we  flew  at  our  mast-head  when  we  left  Oak- 
land. 

This  morning  Jack  called  to  me,  "Hurry  on  deck — the 
ocean  is  alive  with  Portuguese  men-o'-war!"  My  first 
thought  was  one  of  alarm;  next  I  wished  Jack  would  say 
"water"  instead  of  "ocean" — the  latter  sounded  so  remote. 
(You  see,  in  my  inner  consciousness  I  am  still  on  land.) 
Then  I  oriented  myself,  took  a  good  look  at  the  "mighty 
wet,"  the  "prodigious  damp"  that  encompassed  us,  and  be- 
gan to  shake  the  land-dust  out  of  my  brain.  The  fearsome 
Portuguese  men-o'-war  turned  out  to  be  pretty,  jelly-like 
bits  of  life — turquoise-blue,  transparent  organisms,  each  with 
a  milky,  finny  sail  hoisted  to  the  breeze.  The  sea  was  float- 
ing countless  myriads  of  them,  and  we  hauled  one  or  two 
aboard  in  a  canvas  bucket,  finding  them  no  less  beautiful  at 
close  range. 

Then  the  gunies.  (I  said  there  was  much  to  tell.)  First 
day,  one  guny;  second  day,  two  gunies;  to-day,  four  gunies. 
And  they  will  eat  anything  but  orange-peel.  A  human  be- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  5 

ing  is  the  only  animal  that  has  sense  enough  to  make  use  of 
orange-peel — though  he  disguises  it  pretty  thoroughly  be- 
fore he  finds  it  palatable.  A  guny — in  case  you  don 't  happen 
to  know — looks  like  a  dark-grey,  overgrown  seagull,  until 
he  essays  to  fold  his  wings  upon  the  water.  Then  there  is  a 
difference.  I  say  " tries"  to  fold  his  wings,  because  each 
attempt  appears  to  be  a  brand-new  experiment,  each  experi- 
ment rivalling  the  last  in  awkwardness.  Once  folded  down, 
the  three- jointed  pinions  do  not  always  seem  to  sit  comfort- 
ably, whereupon  the  bird  fusses  around  and  re-settles  them 
until,  possibly,  another  bird  has  eaten  what  he  was  after. 
These  are  the  birds  that  get  seasick  when  they  are  captured. 
I'd  like  to  see  something  seasick  besides  a  human  being. 
And  I  'd  like  to  see  Tochigi  make  even  a  feeble  attempt  to  be 
something  else  than  a  corpse.  It  cannot  be  possible  that  he 
enjoys  seasickness !  He  was  ever  a  willing  worker. 

But  do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  watching  gunies  and 
Portuguese  men-o'-war  and  purple  seas  have  been  my  only 
occupations.  I  have  cleaned  up  the  greasy,  filthy,  littered 
floors  of  the  engine  room,  the  bathroom,  two  staterooms,  and, 
with  poor  sick  Martin's  help,  the  cabin.  I  did  not  think  I 
could  stay  so  long  below;  but  the  mess  was  unbearable,  al- 
though it  did  not  seem  to  bother  any  one  but  Jack  and  me. 
You  should  have  seen  my  hands  these  three  days.  But  I 
have  made  merry  with  much  soap,  strong  ammonia,  and  as 
little  precious  fresh  water  as  was  practicable.  Now  I  feel 
more  like  a  white  woman. 

Have  I  said  anything  about  the  weather?  It  would  not 
do  to  leave  the  weather  out  of  a  Log.  We  anchored  off  the 
Alameda  Pier  the  day  we  bade  Oakland  good-bye,  Monday, 
and  spent  the  night  there  under  starry  skies.  The  next  day 
was  overcast ;  Wednesday  was  overcast ;  Thursday,  to-day,  is 
overcast,  and  we  have  had  no  observation.  Our  patent  log 
registers  about  seventy-five  miles  for  the  past  twenty-four 
hours  and  now,  at  five  o  'clock  p.  M.,  we  are  swinging  along 
in  a  fresh  breeze,  still  overcast,  a  faint  silver  sunset  on  the 
grey  horizon. 


6  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Later. — They  are  rigging  up  a  topsail  to  put  speed  on  the 
yacht,  and  Bert  has  climbed  the  mainmast  to  straighten  out 
something.  He  is  a  goodly  sight,  clinging  high,  his  bare, 
powerful  arms  working  at  the  swaying  masthead.  The  extra 
sail  is  making  the  boat  drive  faster,  but  something  is  wrong 
with  it,  and  although  adding  to  our  speed,  it  is  so  horribly 
ill-setting  that  Roscoe  is  promptly  taking  it  down.  And  oh ! 
it's  great,  this  rush  of  wind  and  wave — a  wonderful  new 
life,  all  the  working  of  this  little  world  of  plank  and  iron 
and  brass  and  canvas.  And  if  I  can  feel  enthusiasm  while 
my  stomach  is  still  wavering  between  belt  and  throat,  fancy 
the  enjoyment  to  come. 

At  sea,  Friday,  April  26,  1907. 

This  has  been  a  very  exciting  day.  Listen :  Jack  shaved, 
and  I  washed  my  face  and  hands.  If  you  are  inclined  to 
smile  at  our  simple  pleasures  and  excitements,  stop  and  con- 
sider if  it  is  really  funny  for  a  water-loving  crowd  to  go 
without  washing  for  forty-eight  hours  or  so.  I  love  to  wash 
my  hands.  Ordinarily  I  wash  them  a  thousand  times  a  day, 
more  or  less.  So  imagine  the  black  filth  and  oil  and  grease 
and  the  seasickness  that  could  make  me  more  contented  to 
sleep  and  wake  in  grime  than  to  make  a  fight  for  cleanliness. 
I  hope  that  I  may  never  again  be  so  soiled  and  unkempt. 
However,  there's  nothing  like  being  adaptable.  It  is  what 
makes  a  trip  around  the  world. 

I  further  celebrated  to-day  by  manicuring  Jack's  and  my 
own  nails.  It  took  me  all  of  three  hours.  If  I  move  too 
rapidly,  I'm  liable  to  lose  my  latest  meal.  I  am  having 
my  turn  at  the  prevalent  lassitude,  lying  in  the  life-boat  for 
hours  without  ambition  enough  to  open  my  eyes.  The  crew 
seems  to  be  demoralised.  "Work  doesn't  go  on.  There  is  no 
system  about  anything,  and  this  spirit  is  contagious.  Jack 
is  growing  restive,  but  has  not  yet  interfered.  Some  piece 
of  work  on  deck  is  begun,  and  never  finished,  and  the  gen- 
eral lack  of  interest  is  astounding. 

The  sky  is  overcast,  for  a  change,  and  winds  are  variable. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  7 

Eighty  miles  have  been  left  behind  since  yesterday  noon. 
We  are  beginning  to  wonder  about  all  the  fish  Jack  promised 
us,  for  we  have  not  seen  a  single  one.  Jack  trolls,  but  has  no 
luck.  There  is  not  even  a  flying-fish,  the  herald  of  the 
king,  which  is  the  dolphin.  The  Portuguese  men-o  '-war  still 
escort  us,  and  an  occasional  guny  casts  a  shadow  on  the  deck. 
Oh!  for  a  sunny  day.  These  cloudy  skies  are  indescribably 
depressing.  They  are  not  heavy  clouds — every  now  and 
then  the  blue  breaks  through  or  a  bit  of  sunlight  straggles 
down,  only  to  withdraw  again  behind  the  pall.  I  can  see 
my  first  stormy  petrels,  Mother  Gary's  chickens.  (NOTE. 
If  I  make  any  mistakes,  please  remember  that  I  am  calling 
things  by  the  names  that  are  given  me  by  those  aboard  who 
have  either  sailed  the  seas  before,  or  have  read  extensively 
about  the  sea.  Now,  I  don't  know  whether  yon  sable  scav- 
engers are  yclept  gunies  or  gonies.  No  one,  upon  being 
pressed,  can  help  me  out.  I  can  only  go  my  phonetic  way — 
even  the  dictionary  fails  me.  Jack  and  Roscoe  pronounce 
it  goo-ny,  and  * '  guny "  is  as  near  as  I  care  to  come  to  that. 
There  is  nothing  so  valuable  as  a  husband  upon  whom  a 
woman  can  shirk  her  responsibilities.) 

Tochigi  came  to  life  to-night  while  the  rest  of  us  were 
trying  to  consume  a  shifting  dinner  (except  Martin,  who 
peered  jealously  down  from  his  bunk-shelf  at  the  table  he 
had  furnished  and  of  which  he  could  not  partake) — Tochigi, 
I  say,  came  to  life  and  feebly  piped  over  the  edge  of  his 
bunk:  "Mr.  London,  I  think  I  could  take  my  watch  to- 
night." Of  course  we  knew  he  couldn't — he  was  weak  as  a 
whisper;  but  it  was  encouraging  to  hear  him  offer,  he  had 
so  utterly  succumbed  up  to  then.  While  the  rest  of  us  who 
are  seasick  are  alternately  working  and  sloughing  off  our 
nourishment,  he  refuses  to  leave  his  bunk  except  for  the  last- 
named  exigency  (which  has  become  rather  attenuated  by 
now),  and  meanwhile  his  cabin-work  lapses  and  conditions 
below  are  unspeakable.  If  I  looked  at  it  all  with  land-eyes, 
I  know  I  could  not  stand  it.  But  I  brought  an  extra  pair 
of  eyes  with  me,  for  it  doesn't  always  pay  to  observe  too 


8  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

closely.  I  have  earnestly  tried  to  ease  the  disorder  below, 
but  cannot  keep  abreast  of  the  accumulation;  besides,  it 
makes  Jack  indignant  to  see  me  dd  it.  The  aforesaid  joy  of 
living  is  considerably  dampened  by  the  demoralisation 
aboard. 

We  had  a  three-handed  game  of  Hearts  before  eight,  this 
evening,  after  which  I  took  my  watch,  from  eight  until  ten. 
The  moon  showed  occasionally,  in  a  sickly,  unwilling  sort 
of  way,  and  the  sunset  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of  itself. 


At  sea,  Saturday,  April  27,  1907. 

This  also  has  been  an  exciting  day,  but  in  a  different  way. 
There  was  a  steady  increase  in  wind,  with  the  accustomed 
overcast  sky,  until  it  was  blowing  what  the  men  called  l  i  half 
a  summer  gale/7  although  to  me  it  seemed  far  more  than 
that.  In  the  morning  we  sat  in  and  around  the  cockpit  for 
a  while,  very  jolly,  talking  about  the  colour  of  the  water  and 
the  size  of  the  swells  and  the  sailing  qualities  of  the  yacht. 
A  boat  is  as  absorbing  a  topic  as  a  horse,  for  lengthy  discus- 
sion. Little  did  we  dream  what  we  were  to  learn  about  her 
before  the  day  and  night  were  gone.  You  see,  when  a  boat 
is  built,  no  matter  upon  what  lines  or  by  what  rules,  no  man 
knows  what  peculiarities  may  show  up.  Boats  are  as  un- 
certain as  babies.  It  is  too  dreadful.  Let  me  take  my  time. 

As  the  wind  kept  on  freshening,  sail  was  shortened  and 
two  reefs  were  put  in  the  mainsail;  and  finally  Jack  and 
Roscoe  decided  that  it  would  be  best  to  heave  to  for  the 
night  so  that  all  hands  could  have  some  sleep,  rather  than 
set  long  watches  for  the  wise  ones  or  to  trust  the  steering  to 
the  green,  hands — as  it  was  a  case  of  running  before  the  wind 
with  a  little  rag  of  a  flying-jib  if  we  sailed  at  all. 

Toward  night  the  weather  looked  very  nasty  indeed  (I 
knew  I'd  have  a  chance  to  report  some  weather),  the  waves 
seemed  enormous  to  me,  the  Snark  rolled  and  pitched,  water 
running  deep  across  her  deck,  water  sloshing  around  below 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  9 

and  squirting  up  through  the  floors,  water  squeezing  in 
through  the  buried  side  and  into  the  galley  stores  and  all 
over  the  dishes  and  stove.  But  the  boat  acted  well  in  the 
heavy  seas,  until  it  came  to  putting  her  through  the  paces  of 
heaving  to.  Heaving  to  means  bringing  a  vessel's  head  up 
into  the  wind,  the  sails  being  trimmed  to  hold  her  that  way 
any  length  of  time.  This  means  safety  so  long  as  a  sail  stays 
on  a  boat. 

Now,  listen  well;  the  Snark  refused  to  heave  to.  Not  all 
the  efforts  of  three  men  for  hours  and  hours  could  make  her 
heave  to.  She  simply  wallowed — and  most  creditably  wal- 
lowed, it  must  be  confessed — in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  but 
would  come  no  farther  into  the  wind.  Fortunately  the  gale 
did  not  increase,  nor  was  it  cold.  But  oh,  the  hills  and 
valleys  of  the  ocean!  There  may  be  real  storms  for  the 
Snark  somewhere  on  the  wide  ocean  of  our  adventure;  but 
the  waves  this  day  loomed  quite  large  enough  on  my  new 
horizon.  If  they  had  been  really  big  waves,  we,  rolling  there 
in  the  trough,  might  have  been  turned  over  and  over,  with 
only  a  stray  life-preserver  left  floating  upon  the  boundless 
briny  to  tell  that  the  Snark  had  been  lost  with  all  on  board. 
And,  of  course,  the  wind  might  have  blown  harder,  and  the 
worst  might  have  happened,  with  the  yacht  acting  as  she  did. 
The  final  thing  to  be  done,  in  a  case  like  this,  or  in  any  ex- 
treme case,  is  to  put  out  a  sea  anchor,  a  contrivance  of  can- 
vas and  half-hoops  that  is  warranted  to  hold  to  the  wind 
the  head  of  'most  anything  that  floats.  So  our  sea-anchor 
was  rigged  up.  And  it  failed.  Then  Jack  and  Koscoe  stood 
by  the  mizzen  and  talked  it  over  with  serious  faces.  They 
had  tried  everything,  every  possible  combination  of  sails 
that  they  could  think  of,  and  failed  to  bring  the  yacht  up 
nearer  than  eight  points  into  the  wind,  which  means  that  we 
were  rolling  in  the  trough,  as  I  have  said.  The  men  talked 
it  over,  wondered  at  the  incredible  fact  of  the  failure,  and 
could  solve  nothing  of  the  wonder.  I  wish  I  had  a  picture 
of  the  three,  in  the  pale  grey  moonlight  that  drifted  through 
the  flying  clouds,  leaning  over  the  forward  weather  rail 


10  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

watching  the  sea-anchor.  It  will  be  with  me  always,  that 
grey  scene,  the  three  darker  grey  forms  in  oilskins,  the  heads 
in  sou 'westers,  leaning  at  the  same  angle,  hanging  upon  the 
success  of  that  sea-anchor. 

There  is  no  explaining  these  things  that  happened  this 
day.  I  can  only  tell  the  facts  and  leave  folk  to  wonder  as 
we  wonder. 

All  these  hours  I  stood  in  the  cockpit  hovering  over  the 
compass,  wheel  hard  down,  watching  vainly,  oh !  how  vainly, 
for  the  yacht  to  round  up  into  the  wind,  and  at  the  same 
time  marvelling  that  some  of  the  grey  seas  which  brimmed  to 
the  very  lip  of  the  rail  did  not  come  aboard  and  whelm  us. 
I  remember,  some  years  ago,  figuring  out  that  I  was  too  old 
to  die  young ;  but  this  grey  night,  especially  after  I  went  to 
bed  in  my  rubber  boots,  I  caught  myself  dwelling  on  the  con- 
clusion that  I  was  too  young  to  die ! 

The  other  day  I  was  bending  over  the  stern  watching  the 
rudder  trail  golden  through  the  purple  water,  when  the 
mizzen  boom  unexpectedly  jibed  over.  (This  purple  water 
will  be  the  death  of  me  yet. )  I  was  in  imminent  danger,  but 
knew  nothing  about  it  until  Jack  cried  "Mate!  come  back! 
Come  back!  Quick!"  At  the  same  time  he  grabbed  me 
and  jerked  me  over  a  coil  of  rope  and  the  rail  into  the  cock- 
pit. I  might  have  been  badly  injured  by  the  swift-swinging 
tackle.  I  can  see  Jack's  face  as  he  pulled  me  in.  One  sees 
many  things  in  faces  at  such  moments.  The  wheel  needed 
his  undivided  attention  to  avert  a  possible  smash-up  of  every- 
thing on  deck ;  but  the  man  left  the  ship  to  save  the  woman. 
"There  are  many  boats,  but  only  one  woman,"  he  briefly 
summed  it  up. 

At  sea,  April  28,  1907,  Sunday. 

It  is  not  physically  restful  to  sleep  in  one's  sea-boots — 
nor  mentally  restful,  what  of  one's  reasons  for  so  sleeping. 
There  is  a  sense  of  responsibility  every  moment  of  every 
night,  let  alone  a  night  like  last  night.  And  little  of  a  sailor 
though  I  am,  I  cannot  help  sharing  this  sense  of  responsibil- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  11 

ity.  Jack  bears  the  heaviest  share,  of  course ;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  when  you  consider  that  outside  of  himself 
our  only  sailor  is  a  bay-yachtsman. 

We  ran  before  the  wind  all  last  night,  and  learned  another 
thing  about  the  Snark — that  she  can  run  beautifully,  even  if 
she  can't — or  won't — heave  to.  (Certain  sage  acquaintances 
of  ours  in  San  Francisco,  for  some  unexplained  reason 
wagged  their  heads  over  the  lines  of  the  Snark  and  said  that 
in  the  very  nature  of  things  she  would  never  be  able  to  run. 
Why  they  thought  so,  or  why  they  thought  they  thought  so, 
they  seemed  unable  to  say.  But  I  wish  they  could  have  seen 
her  race  that  breeze  last  night.) 

Jack,  Koscoe  and  Bert  divided  the  hours  into  three 
watches,  for  I  was  not  expected  to  steer  in  such  a  sea,  nor 
did  I  care  to  attempt  it.  Four-hour  watches  are  anxious 
stretches  for  a  tyro  in  an  ugly  wind  and  sea. 

Coming  on  deck  this  morning,  I  stopped  in  the  companion- 
way  to  watch  my  man  at  the  wheel.  His  face,  framed  in  the 
sou  'wester,  was  toward  me ;  but  his  big  sad  eyes  were  turned 
aside  to  the  bitter  sea.  Four  hours  and  more  he  had  stood 
there  guiding  his  boat  of  disappointment,  his  boat  that  will 
not  heave  to  in  a  storm,  that  will  not  even  mind  that  last 
resort,  the  sea-anchor — a  boat  that  would  be  a  death-trap  on 
a  lee-shore. 

But  as  the  day  wore  on  and  the  wind  blew  more  gently, 
and  the  waves  went  down  a  bit,  and  the  sun  came  out  and 
made  the  water  purple,  every  one  grew  more  cheerful.  De- 
vices, to  be  worked  out  in  Honolulu  for  correcting  the  terrible 
fault  of  the  boat,  were  thought  out  and  discussed,  and  we 
were  able  to  make  jokes  at  one  another's  expense,  and  to 
mourn  over  Aunt  Villa's  Christmas  fruit-cake,  made  months 
before  the  voyage,  and  upon  which  somebody  put  a  heavy 
box  in  the  engine-room  the  night  before.  I  remember 
going  down  into  the  dark  and  swash  and  saving  a  huge  chunk 
of  the  shattered  goody,  and  trying  to  feed  it  to  the  hungry, 
toiling,  heart-sick  men  on  deck.  There  had  been  no  dinner, 
no  hot  coffee,  nothing  but  disappointment  and  a  damp  bed. 


12  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Martin  was  very  ill,  and  gazed  down  from  his  bunk  with 
lack-lustre  eyes.  I  don 't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him. 
It  is  not  all  seasickness;  but  the  seasickness  is  so  blended 
with  other  things  that  one  cannot  name  his  trouble.  Prob- 
ably he  has  the  grippe  in  conjunction  with  the  seasickness. 
During  the  trouble  in  the  night,  Martin  heard  Jack  mutter 
something  about  ''Twenty-five  thousand  dollars  gone  to 
blazes,"  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  somehow  gathered  that 
the  Snark  was  about  to  go  down  with  all  hands.  But  even 
this  dismal  prospect  did  not  in  the  least  jog  his  apathy. 

Tochigi  continues  bunk-ridden,  and  the  pig-pen  situation 
below  abates  no  jot.  Jack  has  an  accession  of  disgust  and 
discouragement  whenever  I  try  to  ameliorate  the  awfulness 
— says  it's  a  little  too  much  to  have  his  wife  doing  the  work 
of  two  men.  So  I  do  things  surreptitiously,  although  it  is 
rather  hard  to  be  surreptitious  in  such  close  quarters;  and 
then  I  wax  philosophical  again  about  the  filth,  and  the 
futility  of  one  small  woman  trying  to  keep  abreast  of  the 
accumulation.  At  this  point  I  climb  the  greasy,  sooty,  slip- 
pery companionway  of  beautiful  but  disguised  teak,  and 
seek  surcease  from  sordidness  in  the  cockpit  where  Jack, 
Roscoe,  and  Bert  are  discussing  the  weather.  (Jack  can  be 
found  at  the  wheel,  steering  and  reading,  any  hour  of  the 
day  after  his  morning  work  is  finished.  No  one  ever  sug- 
gests relieving  him.)  Then  I  forget  the  desperate  dirt  in 
the  exhilaration  of  the  speed  we  are  making,  reeling  off  the 
knots  at  the  rate  of  ten  an  hour  and  sometimes  eleven.  A 
knot  is  eight  hundred  feet  longer  than  a  land-mile.  So 
figure  out  our  speed  when  the  Snark  is  walking  along  in  a 
fair  wind.  Other  times  three  knots  will  be  the  tale  of  the 
gay  little  patent  log  over  the  stern;  but  even  so,  that  is 
seventy-two  knots  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 

We  sailed  beautifully  to-day.  We  must  do  justice  to  the 
yacht 's  fine  points,  even  if  she  is  treacherous  and  may  drown 
us  all.  Jack  says  he  never  heard  of  a  sailing  vessel  that 
would  not  heave  to,  although  some  steamers  are  so  con- 
structed that  they  are  obliged  to  heave  to  stern-first.  Her 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  13 

failure  to  do  what  was  expected  of  her  last  night  was  a 
fitting  culmination  to  all  the  distress  of  the  building — the 
unaccountable  delays,  the  frightful  waste  of  money  in 
material  and  worthless  labour,  down  to  the  attachment  on 
our  sailing  day,  for  $242.86,  put  on  the  boat  by  that  wretched 
old  ship  chandler,  Sellers,  who  did  not  even  first  send  over 
his  bill.  And  Jack  had  paid  him  thousands  of  dollars  in 
the  preceding  months,  and  was  waiting  for  all  final  bills  to 
come  in  for  settlement  before  he  sailed,  waiting  with  pen  and 
check  book  in  one  pocket,  and  another  pocket  full  of  gold. 
And  now  think  of  his  feelings,  after  all  his  troubles,  to  find 
that  his  own  boat  is  the  only  one  he  ever  heard  of  that 
refused  to  perform  the  important  and  necessary  function  of 
heaving  to.  He  declares  it  is  enough  to  make  a  man  turn  to 
wine  and  actresses  and  race  horses,  to  be  so  thwarted  in  his 
clean  and  wholesome  scheme  to  gain  pleasure.  I  shall  try  to 
persuade  him  to  stay  by  the  ship ! 

The  sea  is  not  a  lovable  monster.  And  monster  it  is.  I 
thought  a  great  many  thoughts  about  it  last  night,  those 
hours  I  studied  the  binnacle  or  watched  the  men  make  their 
fight.  It  is  beautiful,  the  sea,  always  beautiful  in  one  way 
or  another;  but  it  is  cruel,  and  unmindful  of  the  life  that  is 
in  it  and  upon  it.  It  was  cruel  last  evening,  in  the  lurid  low 
sunset  that  made  it  glow  dully,  to  the  cold,  mocking,  ragged 
moonrise  that  made  it  look  like  death.  The  waves  positively 
beckoned  when  they  rose  and  pitched  toward  our  bit  boat 
labouring  in  the  trough.  And  all  the  long  night  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  heard  voices  through  the  planking,  talking, 
talking,  endlessly,  monotonously,  querulously ;  and  I  couldn  't 
make  out  whether  it  was  the  ocean  calling  from  the  outside 
or  the  ship  herself  muttering  gropingly,  finding  herself.  If 
the  voices  are  the  voices  of  the  ship,  they  will  soon  cease, 
for  she  must  find  herself.  But  if  they  are  the  voices  of  the 
sea,  they  must  be  sad  sirens  that  cry,  restless,  questioning, 
unsatisfied — quaint  homeless  little  sirens. 


14  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

At  sea,  Thursday,  May  2,  1907. 

If  something  does  not  occur  soon,  my  log's  items  will  be 
reduced  to:  No  fish,  light  breeze,  large  swells,  growing 
warmer,  Martin  and  Tochigi  improving,  also  bill  of  fare,  like- 
wise appetites.  We  had  a  little  variation,  however,  on  Mon- 
day, the  29th,  when  Koscoe  took  his  first  observation.  We 
found  ourselves  in  31°  15'  21"  North  Latitude,  126°  48'  8" 
West  Longitude,  with  120  knots  to  our  credit  in  the  preced- 
ing twenty-four  hours,  in  a  fresh  northwest  breeze.  About 
sunset  on  the  same  day  we  sighted  a  full-rigged  ship  several 
miles  off.  She  crossed  our  bows  and  disappeared  in  the  twi- 
light, sailing  a  west  by  south  course.  That  night,  Martin 
being  very  ill,  I  took  his  watch  as  well  as  my  own — four 
hours  on  end.  And  when  I  did  go  below,  I  could  not  rest, 
for  the  wind  was  lively,  and  I  had  a  sense  of  responsibility 
during  the  watches  of  the  green  hands.  My  worry  is  a 
reflection  of  Jack's,  which  is  based  on  the  fact  that  our  crew 
seem  to  regard  this  voyage  as  a  mere  picnic  on  the  breast 
of  an  unruffled  lake.  Jack  has  sailed  deep  water  before; 
and  while  standing  the  same  watches  as  the  others,  he  has  the 
entire  responsibility  as  well.  The  other  day  he  called  all 
hands  aft  and  gave  them  a  very  short  and  very  mild  lecture 
on  system  and  discipline  aboard  ship.  He  had  made  no  sign, 
but  as  no  one  had  displayed  any  ambition  to  improve  the 
appearance  of  the  boat,  above  or  below,  he  thought  he  would 
try  a  little  talk.  It  will  probably  be  resented  in  the  long 
run ;  but  things  could  not  go  on  as  they  were. 

My  eight-to-ten  night  watches  are  a  never-ending  joy. 
Such  gaudy  fan-rays  of  sunset,  and  such  distorted  moonrises, 
the  weird  light  mingling  with  the  phosphorescence  in  the 
water ;  and  I  often  lie  over  the  stern  rail  looking  down  at  the 
rudder  leaving  behind  a  ''welt  of  light"  like  a  comet's  tail. 
The  little  waves  break  and  crumple  in  wild-fire,  and  every- 
thing is  a  wonder.  One  thinks  calmly  and  simply  these  hours 
alone  at  night  upon  the  ocean.  Artificialities  and  conven- 
tions and  the  strains  of  ordinary  life  are  remote  and  trivial. 

Jack  is  at  work  on  a  boat  article,  entitling  it  ' '  The  Incon- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  15 

ceivable  and  Monstrous. "  It  deals  with  the  outrageous  cir- 
cumstances under  which  the  Snark  was  built,  following  the 
earthquake  and  fire;  and  it  deals  with  the  worthless  work 
and  materials  that  were  given  us  for  our  money.  For  in- 
stance, the  "  gooseneck "  on  the  main  gaff  has  broken  short 
off.  It  took  three  men  two  hours  to  substitute  another 
gooseneck,  which  had  to  be  worked  out  of  a  spare  gaff  that 
belongs  to  another  sail.  Half  an  hour  after  it  was  tried,  it 
snapped.  This  being  the  last  one  we  had,  the  gaff  was  lashed 
to  the  mast  with  rope — and  in  this  trig  and  seamanlike  shape 
shall  we  enter  the  port  of  Honolulu,  like  a  sea-bird  paddling 
along  with  a  broken  wing.  Now  please  take  note  that  both 
of  these  wrought  iron  goosenecks  were  made  to  order.  I 
wonder  what  the  maker  had  against  us! 

And  never  for  a  moment  do  we  forget  that  our  staunch 
little  ship  will  not  heave  to. 

A  year  ago  to-day,  Jack  and  I  set  out  upon  a  long 
horseback  trip  up  the  California  coast.  It  just  came  over 
me,  sitting  here  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  ocean — the  feel  of 
the  sweet  country,  the  perfume  of  mountain  lilac,  the  warm 
summer-dusty  air.  What  a  life  we  live,  and  how  we  do  live 
it  while  we  live  it! 

At  sea,  Friday,  May  3,  1907. 

This  is  the  northeast  trade-wind  with  a  vengeance.  The 
Snark  is  sailing  before  it,  with  a  regular  but  heavy  roll  that 
made  me  stuff  a  pillow  between  my  body  and  the  ship's  side 
last  night  before  I  could  get  any  sleep. 

Bert  has  had  a  cold  dip  under  the  bowsprit,  and  now,  in 
a  red  bathing  suit  and  a  scarlet  Stanford  rooter's  hat,  is 
helping  Roscoe  put  to  rights  the  i '  boatswain 's  locker. ' '  Our 
deck,  what  of  desultory  scrubbings  and  much  sea-swashing, 
looks  fairly  respectable.  Jack  got  Tochigi  up  and  put  him 
at  the  wheel,  and  the  enforced  exercise  made  a  great  improve- 
ment in  his  condition.  Martin  is  able  to  cook  an  occasional 
meal,  and  in  fancy's  flights  serves  up  many  delicacies  of  the 


16  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

deep,  such  as  sharks,  whales,  and  dolphins.  Because  the 
vegetables  that  came  aboard  in  Oakland  were  almost  entirely 
worthless,  our  cuisine  is  mostly  garnered  from  tins — and 
the  bean-bag. 

Saturday,  May  4,  1907. 

We  are  bowling  fast  into  the  Torrid  Zone,  into  Hawaiian 
weather.  I  am  sitting  on  the  rudder-box,  steering  with  my 
feet  while  I  write.  Oh,  this  water,  and  this  brave  trade 
wind.  The  big  sapphire  hills  of  water,  transparent  and 
sun-shot,  are  topped  with  dazzling  white  that  blows  from 
crest  to  crest  in  the  compelling  wind.  Just  now  a  huge 
swell  picked  us  up  and  swung  us  high,  and  the  merest  little 
fling  of  salt  spray  was  in  our  faces.  The  Snark  is  what 
sailors  call  a  "dry"  boat.  And  she  sails  easily,  without 
jerks  or  bumps.  Along  comes  a  blue  mountain  that  looks 
like  disaster;  and  we  slip  over  it  and  down  into  the  blue 
abyss  on  the  other  side,  without  a  jar — just  a  huge,  rolling 
slide.  And  ever  the  strong  sweet  wind  blows  from  behind, 
sending  us  forward  to  the  isles  of  our  desire. 

The  steering-compass  has  become  a  part  of  my  conscious- 
ness, sleeping  and  waking;  and  I  often  go  amidships  and 
hover  over  the  big  Standard  Compass.  I  think  in  terms 
of  "south  by  west,"  and  "south  half  west,"  and  other 
expressions  that  were  Greek  to  me  a  month  ago.  I  can  ' l  luff 
her  up, ' '  too,  when  the  men  are  aloft  fixing  something.  And 
I  can  box  the  compass.  Jack  calls  me  various  jolly  names, 
such  as  "The  skipper's  sweetheart,"  "The  Cracker j ack, " 
"Jack's  wife,"  and  I  swell  with  pride  and  feel  very  salty 
indeed.  And  I  am  reminded  to  mention  that  when  we  call 
each  other  "Mate,"  this  has  no  connection  with  boats,  but 
is  an  interchangeable  nickname. 

Monday,  May  6,  1907. 

To-day  is  the  first  time  I  have  felt  that  we  are  actu- 
ally bound  for  Polynesia,  and  all  backward  thoughts  are 
swinging  round  to  the  goal.  The  boys  have  the  big  chart 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  17 

stretched  over  the  book-case  in  the  cabin,  with  our  course,  so 
far  travelled,  marked  upon  it.  It  looks  a  staggery  course, 
for  we  let  the  yacht  steer  herself  much  of  the  time,  under 
short  canvas,  to  save  being  continually  at  the  wheel ;  and  we 
are  not  in  the  least  hurry.  If  the  mizzen  were  hoisted,  and 
some  one  at  the  wheel  all  the  time,  there  would  be  a  differ- 
ent story,  for  the  Snark  can  walk  right  along  with  half  a 
chance.  She  shakes  her  heels  pretty  well  even  as  things  are, 
with  a  heavy  load  and  crippled  mainsail,  her  staysail  and 
two  jibs. 

The  sky  has  been  clearing,  and  we  are  able  to  dry  a  little  of 
the  dampness  below.  I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  get  things 
running  with  any  discipline.  No  one  seems  to  care.  Roscoe 
came  on  the  voyage  as  sailing  master,  but  he  doesn't  take 
charge ;  which  laxness  demoralises  the  rest.  My  fitful  night- 
marish sleep  is  troubled  with  trying  to  get  the  crew  to  do 
something,  or  of  trying  to  get  the  Snark  away  from  San 
Francisco.  Waking,  I  put  my  hands  to  all  sorts  of  strange 
tasks,  to  see  if  it  will  not  encourage  the  others.  Even  Tochigi, 
now  well  on  the  mend,  cannot  seem  to  realise  that  this  is 
home,  and  that  the  same  round  of  duties  obtains  on  a  boat  as 
in  a  house.  But  we  shall  get  harmony  out  of  it  all  yet. 


Thursday,  May  9,  1907. 

Another  item  of  the  Inconceivable  and  Monstrous:  Day 
before  yesterday,  when  the  men  tried  to  set  our  spinnaker 
for  the  first  time — the  beautiful  wing  of  speed  that  stretches 
overside — an  important  piece  of  wrought  iron  on  the  boom 
threatened  to  give  way.  So  we  shall  have  no  spinnaker  to 
shorten  our  time  to  Honolulu. 

The  deck  has  been  washed! — I  do  not  say  scrubbed,  or 
swabbed,  because  dripping  a  few  pailfuls  of  water  over  the 
planking  is  neither  scrubbing  nor  swabbing,  nor  will  it  re- 
move the  accumulated  dirt.  I  should  not  have  known  the 
deck  was  being  washed  except  that  my  decklight  was  open 
and  I  was  slumbering  thereunder  when  the  deluge  came. 


18  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Jack  and  I  have  decided  that  although  we  wish  we  were 
a  little  younger  than  we  are,  we  are  glad  we  are  not  too 
young.  Extreme  youth  must  be  the  trouble  with  the  rest 
(barring  the  sailing  master,  who  is  sixty),  for  the  spirit  of 
adventure  seems  far  from  them.  While  Jack  and  I  are  on 
deck  or  out  on  the  questing  bowsprit,  enjoying  the  glorious 
sun  and  flowing  air,  watching  for  the  life  of  the  deep  and 
congratulating  ourselves  on  the  mere  fact  of  living,  the  others 
stay  in  the  dim  and  musty  cabin,  reading  or  talking  or 
sleeping,  or  just  sitting  listlessly  with  idle  hands.  It  must 
be  that  we  knew  what  we  wanted,  Jack  and  I,  and  are  get- 
ting what  we  knew  we  wanted. 

We  have  sailed  well  in  a  fair  wind  to-day,  with  a  big  sea, 
and  followed  by  some  spike-tailed  grey  and  white  birds 
called  ''boatswain  birds,"  because  of  their  hoarse,  exhort- 
ing cries,  which  are  supposed  to  resemble  those  of  the  ordi- 
nary ship's  boatswain — pronounced  "bo's'n,"  of  course. 

Jack  has  begun  a  new  article,  to  be  entitled  "  Adven- 
ture." It  deals  with  the  numberless  and  varied  individuals 
who  applied  for  berths  in  the  Snark  for  this  world-voyage. 

This  day  ended  with  a  wild  tropic  sunset  that  lingered 
for  a  long  while — a  sunset  of  brilliant  white  and  silver,  with 
only  faint  suggestions  of  gold  and  red,  and  great  broad  rays 
flaring  up  from  the  horizon,  fanwise.  It  was  nothing  like 
any  land  sunset  we  ever  saw,  and  when  the  sun  had  dropped 
below  the  crinkly  horizon,  a  copper  streak  persisted,  for 
nearly  an  hour  blending  a  ruddy  tinge  with  the  dull  purple 
of  the  water. 

At  sea,  Friday,  May  10,  1907. 

Ominous  black  clouds  pressed  down  upon  the  seascape 
during  my  watch  last  evening,  and  there  was  such  an  ac- 
cession of  brave  trade  wind  and  so  imminent  a  rainsquaU* 
that  I  called  Roscoe  to  take  the  next  watch  instead  of  To- 
chigi.  Nothing  alarming  happened,  only  an  exasperating 
rolling  of  the  sea.  And  they  say  to  me,  "Wait  until  you're 
in  a  gale,  sometime,  and  see  what  real  roltij&g  is!"  I  am 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  19 

waiting,  as  I  am  waiting  for  the  promised  dolphins  and 
bonitas.  Tired  out  trying  to  get  a  morning  nap,  I  joined 
Jack  at  the  wheel  before  six.  It  was  my  first  sunrise  at 
sea,  and  the  great  morning  sky  was  a  whirl  of  tinted  clouds 
poured  over  with  melting  sunshine,  a  glossy  sapphire  satin 
ocean  reflecting  the  glory.  And  we  saw  a  fish,  we  did,  we 
did ! — and  it  was  a  flying-fish.  If  you  don 't  believe  me,  ask 
Jack.  He  saw  TWO.  He  shouted,  " Flying-fish!  Flying- 
fish!"  and  went  right  up  in  the  air.  Now  the  fish-line  is 
trolling  for  dolphin,  for  there  should  be  dolphin  where  are 
flying-fish. 

Later  in  the  day  Jack  enticed  me  out  to  the  tip-end  of  the 
bowsprit,  with  a  heavy  sea  rolling.  I  must  frankly  admit 
that  I  felt  shaky  climbing  out,  my  feet  on  a  steel  stay  only 
a  few  inches  above  the  crackling  foam,  and  my  hands  cling- 
ing to  the  lunging  spar  itself.  But  the  end  was  worth  the 
pains,  and  it  was  wonderful  to  watch  the  yacht  swing  mag- 
nificently over  the  undulating  blue  hills,  now  one  side 
buried  in  the  rushing,  dazzling  smother,  now  the  other,  the 
sunshot  turquoise  water  rolling  back  from  the  shining,  cleav- 
ing white  bows,  and  mixing  with  the  milky  froth  pressed 
under.  We  gained  such  manifold  impressions  of  the  boat 
from  our  vantage  at  the  end  of  the  bowsprit.  Now  the  man 
at  the  wheel  would  be  far,  far  below  us,  a  great  slaty  moun- 
tain rolled  up  behind  him,  and  the  uneven  horizon  high  in 
air;  now  he  was  'way  above  us,  sliding  down  that  same 
mountain.  But  he  never  overtook  us,  for  about  that  time 
we  were  raising  our  feet  from  the  wet  into  which  they  had 
been  plunged,  and  were  holding  on  for  dear  life  as  the 
S nark's  doughty  forefoot  pawed  another  steep  rise. 

But  this  day  has  not  been  all  gladness.  I  did  the  initial 
suffering,  and  Jack  suffered  vicariously.  He  knew  noth- 
ing about  it  until,  following  me  below  to  play  a  game  of 
cribbage,  he  found  me  sitting  on  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  the 
companion-stairs,  unable  to  speak  a  word.  Before  me  sat 
Roscoe,  watching  me  curiously.  Above  us,  Martin  eyed  me 
suspiciously,  and  ventured  tentatively,  "Now,  in  Kansas,  in 


20  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

my  family,  the  women  cry  when  they  hurt  themselves  like 
that."  I  couldn't  cry — it  hurt  too  much.  I  am  not  very 
heavy,  perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds;  but  this 
weight  behind  one  small  elbow- joint,  in  a  six-foot  fall,  is  no 
light  matter.  My  rubber  soles  were  wet,  slipped  on  the  top 
step,  and  I  touched  nothing  until  I  landed  below,  on  that 
right  elbow.  No,  I  shed  no  tears — then.  But  when  I  was 
alone  at  the  wheel,  under  the  stars,  I  wailed  right  woman- 
like. 

At  sea,  Monday,  May  13,  1907. 

The  "Inconceivable  and  Monstrous"  has  cropped  up 
again.  The  bottom  dropped  out  of  the  bean-pot,  right  in 
the  oven,  when  said  pot  was  simmering  a  delectable  mass  of 
frijoles,  tomatoes,  onions,  garlic,  Chile  peppers,  and  olive 
oil.  My  great  earthen  bean-pot,  my  noble  bean-pot,  my 
much-vaunted  bean-pot,  has  gone  to  pot!  "Whoever  heard 
of  a  bean-pot  cutting  such  capers?  I  leave  it  to  anybody. 
But  nothing  commonplace  ever  happens  aboard  the  Snark. 
Why,  the  very  particular  universe  in  which  she  moves  is  of 
an  uncommon  variety — a  dual  universe,  in  short.  You  may 
not  have  heard:  but  Roscoe  is  making  the  voyage  on  the 
inside  of  the  earth's  crust,  while  the  rest  of  us  (barring 
Bert,  who  is  on  the  cosmographical  fence)  have  a  strong  be- 
lief that  we  are  progressing  upon  the  outer  surface  of  the 
globe,  with  an  ascertained  astronomical  system  surround- 
ing us.  Either  Roscoe  will  have  to  find  a  hole  through 
which  to  climb  to  our  stratum,  or  we  shall  be  obliged  to 
crawl  through  to  his  warm  kennel ;  and  I  don 't  know  which 
event  is  the  more  unlikely.  No,  there  is  nothing  common- 
place about  the  Snark  or  her  voyage.  It  wouldn't  sur- 
prise me  to  see  the  water  canary-yellow  and  the  sky  bright 
green.  I  forgot  to  tell  about  the  dolphins.  There  aren't 
any.  But  there  are  plenty  of  flying-fish. 

This  is  a  fine  sunny  day,  and  I  have  been  steering  for 
an  hour  and  a  half  while  I  write,  to  give  the  others  a  chance 
to  do  the  deck-work.  Everybody  is  in  good  health,  but 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  21 

without  animation  or  ambition  or  pride  in  the  yacht.  "When 
they  are  not  making  listless  bluffs  at  working  on  deck,  they 
continue  to  sit  below,  dully  wondering  when  we  will  reach 
Honolulu.  I  believe  Jack  and  I  are  the  only  ones  who  do 
not  care  how  long  the  trip  lasts.  We  are  happy  in  the 
sailing  and  the  health  and  life  and  beauty  of  everything 
about  us,  and  one  hour  is  as  another  for  pleasantness.  I  re- 
joice to  observe  that  Jack  has  unconsciously  resumed  his 
wonted  light-foot  gait,  which  I  call  his  "merry  walk,"  and 
his  smile  is  like  a  sunbeam. 

Yesterday  I  had  a  little  lark  all  by  myself,  sitting  on  the 
lee  rail  and  dabbling  my  feet  in  the  warm  gurgling  water 
overside.  Next  time  I'll  wear  a  bathing-suit.  Jack  de- 
clined to  join  my  refreshing  gambols,  saying  that  he  would 
go  in  all  over  when  he  chose  to  get  wet;  but  he  trained  a 
cautious  eye  upon  me,  for  it  would  be  decidedly  inconven- 
ient to  pick  up  a  "man  overboard,"  especially  if  that  man 
were  a  woman  who  knows  little  about  keeping  afloat  in  rest- 
less water.  At  three  o'clock  we  went  below  and  answered 
a  huge  bunch  of  mail,  Jack  dictating  to  me  through  the 
narrow  doorway  that  separates  our  rooms.  We  got  the  work 
done  quite  comfortably. 

The  sunset  last  evening  claimed  us  for  an  hour,  as  we  lay 
on  the  fore-peak  hatch,  heaving  upon  the  mighty  lungs  of 
the  ocean.  It  was  the  first  time  the  sun  had  sunk  into  the 
sea  instead  of  into  banks  of  clouds.  It  dropped  slowly 
through  rainbow  mists,  a  dull  orange  ball  that  we  could 
gaze  upon  to  the  last  without  straining  our  eyes.  The  big 
night-purple  waves  rose  and  broke  against  it,  turning 
slowly  to  ashen-rose  in  the  shell-rose  light  that  followed  the 
setting.  But  no  matter  how  pale  the  tints  of  the  tropic 
world,  they  are  very  simple  and  crude.  With  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  day-ending  still  in  my  soul,  I  took  the  wheel  at 
eight  o'clock,  and  was  thoroughly  enjoying  the  rhythmic 
solitude  when  I  was  jarred  rudely  from  off  my  blissful 
plane  by  the  appearance  of  a  bald  head  in  the  engine-room 
hatch-way  and  a  querulous  and  accusing  voice  demanding, 


22  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

* c  How  on  earth  do  you  expect  anybody  to  sleep  when  you  're 
making  that  noise?"  I  was  singing!  And  it  is  not  out  of 
place  to  mention  that  only  those  near  to  us  by  marriage  or 
blood  are  privileged  so  to  break  in  upon  our  raptures! 


Wednesday,  May  15,  1907. 

This  is  the  most  perfect  morning  yet.  And  it  isn't  so 
merely  because  I  have  had  two  good  nights  of  sleep;  the 
sea  disk  is  of  deepest  sapphire,  the  trade-wind  clouds, 
lying  low  and  puffy  on  the  horizon  and  straggling  up  here 
and  there  into  the  blue,  are  the  real  trade-wind  clouds  we 
have  been  looking  for  so  long,  while  a  not-too-dense  white 
cloud  follows  the  face  of  the  sun  and  tempers  the  heat.  We 
are  sailing  along  well  on  a  comparatively  smooth  sea,  in  the 
gentle  but  steady  trade-wind.  At  nine  the  course  was 
changed  to  "W.N.W.  true,  to  clear  Maui  by  25  miles." 

Jack  looks  like  a  picture  of  a  sailor,  at  the  wheel,  in  a 
suit  of  white  sailor-togs,  against  a  classic  watery  back- 
ground. Bert  is  going  over  everything  on  deck  with  a 
brush,  and  the  deck  itself  is  being  washed.  (I  am  glad 
there  is  some  activity  on  deck,  for  last  night,  leaving  the 
wheel  in  a  sudden  rainsquall  to  put  the  cover  on  the  boat- 
swain's locker  which  had  been  carelessly  left  open,  I  nearly 
broke  my  neck  over  a  sack  of  coal  that  has  been  lying  for 
days  across  the  one  available  gangway  on  deck.)  Martin  is 
planning  a  big  platter  of  spaghetti  and  mushrooms,  Italian 
style,  and  Tochigi  is  cleaning  up  below.  My  flannel  sailor- 
clothes  are  towing  overside  (this  is  the  way  we  launder), 
and  when  they  come  up,  clean,  and  have  hung  in  the  shrouds 
until  dry,  they  shall  be  wrapped  carefully  and  packed  away 
until  such  time,  how  long  hence,  and  where,  who  knows?  as 
they  may  be  needed  in  a  cooler  clime.  Yesterday,  although 
only  88°,  we  suffered  from  the  heat.  We  are  well  over  half 
way  to  Hawaii. 

A  few  scaly  scales  were  found  on  the  deck  this  morning, 
attesting  to  our  having  been  boarded  by  one  or  more  flying- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  23 

fish,  but  nothing  was  on  our  hook.  But  yesterday,  while 
Jack  and  I  were  working  hard  below,  there  arose  a  great 
yelling  on  deck  for  us  to  come  up.  Which  we  wasted  no 
time  in  doing,  for  news  is  scarce  these  days;  and  there,  to 
leeward,  we  saw  a  goodly  school  of  fin-back  whale. 

I  am  reading  Isabella  Bird  Bishop's  Hawaii.  It  was 
written  long  ago,  but  is  splendid  live  stuff,  being  her  let- 
ters written  to  England  from  the  Islands.  I  am  also  study- 
ing our  Planispheres,  in  order  to  familiarise  myself  a  little 
with  the  changing  skies.  Jack  told  me  to  watch  for  the 
Southern  Cross,  and  last  evening  when  I  came  on  deck  to 
take  my  watch,  there  it  was,  just  as  it  looked  on  the  Plani- 
sphere, and  I  realised  I  had  been  looking  at  the  constella- 
tion for  several  nights,  without  knowing.  I  must  confess 
that  I  had  expected  something  larger  and  more  bejewelled. 
But  it  is  a  very  good,  bright  little  cross,  and  is  going  to 
mean  much  to  me. 

Later.  Bert  has  blossomed  resplendent  in  white  trousers 
and  a  blue  shirt.  He  washed  his  face  and  shaved  yesterday, 
saying  in  extenuation  ( !)  that  he  had  not  looked  in  the 
glass  for  a  week,  and  didn't  realise  how  unkempt  he  was. 
Martin  is  almost  well,  and  furbished  up  his  camera  this 
afternoon.  Jack  wrote  in  the  morning,  and  dug  at  naviga- 
tion later  on.  I  wrote  letters,  did  some  typewriting,  and 
actually  got  out  my  sewing.  I  did  not  realise  how  dark 
the  backs  of  my  hands  were  from  sunburn  until  I  saw 
them  against  the  fine  white  linen.  But  for  a  wonder  my  face 
and  neck  are  not  much  tanned. 

The  setting  of  the  sun,  the  blossoming  of  the  new  moon 
in  a  bright  rose  afterglow,  and  the  coming  of  the  stars,  are 
a  feast  of  beauty  each  evening.  That  growing  silver  of  a 
young  moon  was  so  brilliant  last  night  that  it  bewildered 
my  sight,  and  I  could  not  avoid  seeing  two  crescents.  Jack 
brought  up  his  sextant  and  took  some  observations,  during 
which  he  remarked  icily  that  he  did  wish  I  could  manage 
to  call  that  fine  and  beautiful  instrument  something  besides 

hydrant. 


'" 


24  THE  LOG  OP  THE  SNAKK 

Lat.     20°  56'  North, 
Lon.  152°  52'  West. 
At  sea,  Thursday,  May  16,  1907. 

Our  trade-wind  died  down  to  the  faintest  breathings  in 
the  morning,  and  this  afternoon  it  is  so  calm  that  we  have 
little  better  than  steerage-way.  At  this  rate  we  shall  not 
see  land  to-day  as  we  had  hoped.  I  worked  below  for  hours 
in  my  stateroom,  writing  letters,  typewriting,  and  reading, 
for  once  finding  it  cooler  than  on  deck.  With  decklights 
and  skylights  open,  it  is  nearly  always  cool  below — a  very 
encouraging  thing  to  look  forward  to  in  the  tropics.  And 
if  our  electric  plant  ever  works  satisfactorily,  we  shall  be  in 
clover.  This  coolness  of  the  Snark's  interior  is  one  of  the 
few  things  about  that  much-sinned-against  craft  that  are 
not  Inconceivable  and  Monstrous.  So  much  luck  may  be 
Inconceivable,  but  I  don't  like  to  call  it  Monstrous.  It 
might  be  tempting  fate. 

But  we  faced  it  again  this  afternoon,  the  Inconceivable 
and  Monstrous,  all  done  up  in  a  blue  and  green  package 
seven  or  eight  feet  long  in  the  shape  of  a  shark,  attended  by 
his  fleet  of  black  and  white  striped  pilot-fish.  Bert  saw  it 
first.  He  had  been  bathing  from  the  stays  under  the  bow- 
sprit, and  no  sooner  had  he  regained  the  deck  than  he  saw 
the  dorsal  fin  of  the  shark  cutting  the  surface  a  short  dis- 
tance away.  Jack  immediately  baited  a  hook  of  the  proper 
size  with  a  goodly  chunk  of  fat  from  our  best  boiled  ham, 
from  which  Martin  happened  to  be  carving  slices  for  sup- 
per. And  that  tempting  bait,  that  superfine — for  sharks — 
morsel  of  salt  pork  was  smelled  by  that  shark,  and  that 
Inconceivable,  Monstrous,  Epicurean  shark  even  jauntily 
scratched  his  back  upon  the  light  rope  that  trailed  the  hook ! 

Now,  who  ever  heard  of  a  shark  that  would  not  rise  to 
salt  pork,  or  sink  to  salt  pork,  or,  at  any  rate,  be  interested 
in  salt  pork  one  way  or  another?  It's  in  all  the  books  and 
on  the  tongues  of  all  the  sailors,  that  salt  pork  is  the  un- 
failing bait  for  shark.  Perhaps  it  isn't  exactly  Inconceiv- 
able that  this  particular  fish  may  have  been  gorging  him- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  25 

self  to  repletion  before  he  sighted  us;  but  it  is  certainly 
Monstrous  that  the  first  fish  we  have  seen  on  this  strange, 
uneventful  voyage  (barring  flying-fish  and  whales),  should 
be  a  shark,  and  that  this  particular  one  should  refuse  super- 
fine salt  pork.  It  is  on  a  par  with  the  Snark  refusing  to 
heave  to.  That  still  rankles;  I  cannot  forgive  her.  It 
would  rankle  worse  still  if  this  calm  should  prove  to  be  the 
forerunner  of  a  real  gale. 

We  even  had  a  cold  supper  served  aft,  that  we  might  keep 
an  eye  on  that  disagreeable,  ungrateful  scavenger  that 
wouldn't  scav. — I've  got  it!  I've  got  it!  That  shark 
was  a  scavenger,  of  course,  and  a  mere  scavenger  would 
not  know  first-table  ham  if  he  saw  it ;  and  he  would  therefore 
be  suspicious  of  it,  of  its  smell  and  its  taste.  I  know  there 
ought  to  be  some  explanation,  and  perhaps  I  have  found  it. 

A  lovely,  colourful  sunsetting,  a  shining  silver  sickle  in 
the  afterglow,  a  little  studying  of  the  constellations,  and  my 
watch  began,  a  beautiful  watch  except  for  the  fact  that  the 
tops  of  the  brass  binnacle  lamps  are  hot,  and  I  laid  the  ten- 
der palm  of  my  left  hand  on  the  port  one.  Then  I  called 
for  some  kitchen  soap  and  plastered  the  palm  with  it.  How 
I  do  hurt  myself !  Why,  I  have  to  go  around  with  my  right 
elbow  bandaged  in  a  salt-wet  towel,  and  cannot  use  the  arm. 
Therefore  I  am  black  and  blue  from  violent  contact  with 
various  articles  on  the  crowded  boat.  It  is  more  difficult 
than  one  would  dream  to  adjust,  physically,  to  this  moving 
base. 

There  is  a  new  feel  about  everything,  with  this  closeness 
to  land.  We  seem  suddenly  to  have  a  place  in  the  universe, 
a  character  of  our  own.  We  have  had  nothing  all  these 
weeks  with  which  to  compare  ourselves,  ourselves  as  a  boat. 
We  have  been  alone  of  our  kind,  with  no  one  to  see  that  we 
existed.  This  is  almost  as  good  as  annihilation,  isn't  it? 
But  now  we  seem  about  to  take  our  place  once  more  in  a 
known  world.  On  a  big  ship,  carrying  hundreds  of  per- 
sons, it  is  different;  the  many  souls  form  a  community,  and 
the  unrelated  character  of  the  vessel  is  not  so  conspicuous. 


26  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

We  are  so  very,  very  little;  the  daily  surprise  is  that  we 
know  where  we  are  at  all,  that  we  can  do  aught  but  drift,  a 
mote  in  a  sunbeam. 

Lat.     21°  23'  North, 
Lon.  154°  13'  45"  West. 
At  sea,  Friday,  May  17,  11)07. 

In  a  thin  kimono  I  joined  Jack  at  the  wheel  to  enjoy  the 
sunrise  with  him.  It  is  delightful  to  be  so  safely  careless 
about  warmth  of  clothes,  in  this  blowing  air.  We  sneeze  oc- 
casionally, for  old-time's  sake,  but  there  is  no  cold  in  the 
head  to  follow.  There  were  some  showers  in  the  early  hours, 
with  calm  afterwards,  but  we  are  picking  up  a  little  breeze, 
enough  to  steer  by.  Nothing  but  clouds  on  the  horizon; 
no  land.  There  is  a  familiar  high  fog  overhead  that  makes 
me  homesick ;  but  I  think  I  am  homesick  for  the  Islands. 

While  Jack  and  the  boys  were  taking  a  bath  to-day  under 
^the  bow,  clinging  to  the  bob-stay,  Roscoe  and  I  poured  brine 
over  each  other's  heads,  aft  by  the  cockpit.  This  was 
after  we  had  soaped  our  hair.  I  haven't  been  able  to  do 
up  mine  since;  and  now,  while  I  write,  I  am  steering  and 
drying  my  locks  after  a  fresh-water  rinse. 

Tochigi  made  some  candy  yesterday,  rice  boiled  in  mo- 
lasses. The  rice  remains  brittle,  as  do  the  brown  beans 
that  are  added.  Tochigi 's  success  made  Martin  ambitious, 
and  we  are  waiting  for  the  molasses  confectionery  he  is 
making  while  he  bakes.  His  bread  is  very  good,  by  the  way; 
and  he  has  easily  learned  to  make  the  simple  yet  difficult 
graham  bread.  I  don't  know  who  is  going  to  pull  that  mo- 
lasses candy.  Martin  thinks  he  should  be  exempt,  having 
made  it ;  besides,  he  is  too  busy.  Roscoe  also  says  he  is  busy. 
Jack  is  writing,  and  can't;  and  the  nice,  round,  burned 
circle  in  my  palm  prevents  me  from  volunteering.  Bert 
has  announced  that  he  can,  but  that  he  doesn  't  want  to — sun- 
burned hands  being  his  excuse.  I  think  I  can  see  Tochigi 
pulling  the  candy  for  the  crowd. 

Later.  At  last,  our  first  land !  After  supper,  Jack  and 
I  were  playing  cribbage  on  the  fore-peak  hatch,  before  going 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  27 

into  the  bows  to  watch  the  sunset,  when  he  shouted  "Land!" 
at  the  same  time  pointing  over  the  starboard  bow.  Oh,  it 
was  exciting!  Our  first  island,  faint  and  far,  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  clouds  around  it.  And  the  best  about 
it  is,  that  it  is  just  where  it  ought  to  be  (if  it  is  the  Island 
of  Maui ) ,  ten  thousand  feet  high  and  a  hundred  miles  away, 
which  would  prove  our  observations  to  have  been  correct. 
Everybody  began  to  climb.  "  Martin- Johnson-Discovering- 
Hawaii"  hung  in  the  shrouds,  while  Bert,  having  attained 
the  head  of  the  mainmast,  came  sliding  precipitately  down 
the  jib-stay — rather  a  risky  undertaking,  we  thought,  until 
he  explained  to  us  that  he  had  practised  it  in  California. 
Tochigi  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  climb  a  few  feet  the  better 
to  observe  a  10,000  foot  mountain.  Tochigi  has  the  wis- 
dom of  the  East  in  his  gentle  head. 

I  remember  what  a  paradise  Jamaica  looked,  one  New 
Year's  morn  when  we  saw  it  rising  out  of  the  Caribbean 
Sea.  But  this  is  different;  now  we  are  adventuring  in  a 
little  boat  of  our  own,  and  one  could  almost  wish  no  charts 
had  ever  been  made  of  the  region  in  which  we  now  are,  and 
that  we  were  discovering  it  for  ourselves. 


Aboard  the  Snark,  off  Island  of  Maul, 
Hawaiian  Islands,  Saturday,  May  18,  1907. 

Coming  on  deck  at  six  for  my  sun-bath,  I  could  not  even 
say  good  morning  to  my  Mate  at  the  wheel,  so  exquisite  was 
the  greeting.  I  looked  south  right  at  the  snow-hooded  sum- 
mit of  mighty  Mauna  Kea  on  the  Island  of  Hawaii,  rising 
14,000  feet  out  of  the  sea.  The  clouds  must  have  lifted 
only  that  moment,  for  Jack,  scanning  the  horizon,  had 
missed  seeing  the  island ;  so  we  enjoyed  it  together,  a  dream 
f  white  and  blue  opalescence.  It  was  very  thick  to  the 
southwest,  but  soon  Maui  broke  through,  and  the  naviga- 
tors were  able  to  verify  their  calculations.  Haleakala  is  on 
Maui — the  greatest  extinct  volcano  in  the  world,  with  a 
crater  measuring  over  twenty  miles  around.  It  is  impossible 


28  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

to  describe  my  sensation  when  I  look  at  those  bulking  blue 
shapes  cleaving  up  through  the  summer  sea,  as  we  sail.  It 
is  all  wonder,  a  mystery  of  beauty  and  delight. 

Double  watches  were  kept  on  deck  all  last  night.  If  this 
were  Maui,  we  were  of  course  too  far  away  to  lose  sleep 
worrying  about  running  into  anything.  But  a  sailor  can- 
not be  too  careful.  There  is  always  the  chance  for  a  mis- 
take, and  there  was  much  studying  of  charts  in  the  grimy 
little  cabin  of  the  Snark. 

Everybody  has  been  strenuously  occupied  this  morning  in 
keeping  the  ship  afloat.  We  want  variety  of  experience; 
but  when  our  cook  pokes  his  head  up  the  companionway 
and  protests  that  the  floors  below  are  all  awash,  the  owner 
of  the  vessel  strives  without  delay  to  reduce  the  order  of 
the  day  to  the  ordinary  commonplaceness  of  existence.  Bert 
had  forgotten  to  close  a  seacock  in  the  engine  room,  and  the 
water  was  rushing  in.  The  five-horse  power  engine  was 
immediately  switched  off  to  more  important  work  than  the 
deck-washing  that  was  going  on  when  Martin  gave  the  alarm, 
and  Bert  felt  around  for  that  seacock  and  closed  it.  How 
amusing  it  would  have  been  to  go  down  with  all  on  board, 
in  sight  of  our  first  land.  And  as  likely  as  not  the  life-boat 
could  not  be  got  overside  in  case  of  need,  as  Roscoe  has  had 
no  drills. 

The  flying-fish  are  large  and  fat  to-day;  but  still  no  dol- 
phin. Tochigi,  cleaning  deck-lights  and  skylights,  found 
in  a  nook  on  deck  one  small,  very  much  over-ripe  flying-fish. 
This  is  a  rather  deferred  ( ! )  item,  but  it  isn  't  my  fault. 
It  shadows  another  item,  however,  that  certain  portions 
of  the  deck  have  not  been  investigated  in  the  deck-wash- 
ing. 

Later.  A  busy  afternoon  typing  this  Log,  rendered  diffi- 
cult by  the  rough  sea,  which  has  increased  to  the  biggest 
swell  we  have  had  on  the  whole  voyage — probably  the  re- 
sult of  some  gale  to  the  northward.  There  is  plenty  of 
wind  now.  Jack  has  changed  the  course  to  N.W.  by  W., 
to  clear  Molokai,  lying  low  and  sad  among  heavy  clouds, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  29 

under  a  drowning  moon.  Roscoe  7s  optimistic  brain  does  not 
consider  the  change  of  course  necessary,  but  Jack's  brass- 
tack  judgment  says  we  could  not  clear  Molokai  on  the  other 
course,  with  this  wind  holding  all  night,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  San  Francisco  he,  as  captain,  has  over-ridden  the 
sailing  master  with  a  positive  command. 


Aboard  the  SnarJc,  off  Oahu,  Hawaiian  Islands, 

Sunday,  May  19,  1907. 

Jack  set  double  watches  again  last  night,  Tochigi  and  I 
taking  the  first,  from  eight  until  twelve.  It  was  eerie, 
watching  forward  in  the  grey  light  of  the  moon  struggling 
through  the  murk,  and  ever  and  again  I  would  seem  to  see 
land  looming  close  ahead,  only  to  find  it  was  the  huddling 
dark  clouds  on  the  horizon.  I  would  stay  there  for  an 
hour,  then  relieve  Tochigi  at  the  wheel  and  send  him  for- 
ward to  watch.  At  5:30  this  morning,  Jack  jibed  the  boat 
over,  and  I  came  on  deck,  to  find  the  Island  of  Oahu,  upon 
which  is  the  city  of  Honolulu,  right  ahead.  As  we  sailed 
nearer,  the  land  looked  very  familiar,  accustomed  as  we  have 
been  to  pictures  of  it.  The  waters  are  deserted;  it  does 
seem  as  if  we  ought  to  sight  some  sort  of  a  vessel,  so  near 
to  Honolulu.  Such  an  incidentless  voyage — although  I  for- 
got to  tell  that  I  found  one  flea  the  other  day.  Where  he 
had  been  hibernating  I  do  not  know.  And  this  morning  a 
horsefly  came  aboard. 

The  sea  is  transparent ;  one  can  see  into  illimitable  depths 
of  sun-shot  blue.  And  of  all  the  Inconceivable  and  Mon- 
strous things  yet,  here  we  are  drifting  toward  the  reef  of 
Oahu  in  a  dead  calm.  The  trades  are  supposed  to  blow  here 
almost  the  year  around,  especially  at  this  season.  But  we 
have  had  unusual  variable  weather  all  the  way.  Oh !  for  the 
big  engine  now — we  could  be  in  landlocked  Pearl  Harbor  in 
a  couple  of  hours.  Of  course,  if  the  engine  were  in  commis- 
sion, there  would  be  plenty  of  wind.  It  could  not  be  other- 
wise. Don't  try  to  convince  me  that  anything  reasonable 


30  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

could  attend  the  workings  of  our  venture.  Last  night  it  was 
blowing  briskly,  and  then  the  wind  cut  off  short,  and  here 
we  are  turning  round  and  round  under  cloudless  sky  and 
blazing  tropic  sun,  wondering  why  it  is  not  hotter.  It  is 
only  comfortably  warm,  and  this  does  not  seem  reasonable, 
either.  Perhaps  I  am  crazy. 

Still  off  Oahu,  Hawaii, 
Monday,  May  20,  1907. 

We  drifted  past  the  growling  reef,  inside  of  which  we 
saw  little  fishing-boats  sailing  at  sunset;  past  Makapuu 
Head,  and  past  Diamond  Head,  that  beautiful  sentinel  of 
Honolulu;  and  now,  while  we  slip  smoothly  along  toward 
port,  I  will  tell  the  rest  of  yesterday's  experiences.  The 
horsefly,  I  think,  is  the  only  special  excitement  I  have  men- 
tioned. After  the  midday  meal  we  succeeded  in  hooking  a 
guny — don't  doubt  me,  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes,  and  the 
others  will  bear  me  witness.  He  knew  salt  pork  a  mile 
away.  It  was  a  funny  sight,  that  guny  with  the  hook  caught 
in  the  downward  curve  of  his  upper  beak,  coming  toward  us 
against  his  will.  He  measured  six  feet  from  wing-tip  to 
wing-tip,  and  was  a  thing  of  great  beauty,  with  marvel- 
lously feathered,  triple- jointed  pinions  of  cloudy  warm- 
brownish  grey.  His  brown  eyes  were  large  and  sagacious, 
more  like  a  dog's  than  a  bird's,  and  he  used  them,  too.  He 
was  angry  rather  than  frightened,  and  not  especially  vicious, 
although  he  did  manage  to  get  hold  of  Bert's  trousers  and 
a  small  pinch  of  Bert.  But  when  we  tethered  him  on  deck, 
the  Inconceivable  Monster  would  not  be  seasick  as  is  the 
wont  of  captured  gunies.  We  finally  cut  him  loose,  un- 
hurt, and  when  he  went  over  the  side  he  awkwardly  sub- 
merged, something  to  which  he  was  evidently  not  accus- 
tomed, for  he  could  not  raise  his  wet  wings  high  enough  to 
fly.  Just  then  we  picked  up  a  fan  of  wind  and  the  dis- 
tance between  the  stern  of  the  Snark  and  the  stern  of  the 
guny  lengthened  rapidly,  the  bird  paddling  for  dear  life, 
head-over-shoulder  like  a  coyote.  While  we  had  him  on  deck 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  31 

we  noticed  an  old  break  in  one  of  his  legs,  and  two  birdshot 
holes  in  his  web-feet.  He  must  be  a  regular  old  war-horse, 
and  deserving  of  his  liberty. 

Then  we  glimpsed  a  big  freight  steamer  going  southwest; 
and  there  was  quite  a  sociable  time  in  the  late  afternoon,  with 
numerous  things  to  discuss — the  flea,  the  horsefly,  the  guny, 
the  steamer,  a  flickering  breeze,  and  one  lone  Portuguese 
man-o'-war.  And  then  there  was  the  summer  isle  before 
us  with  promise  of  rest  from  perpetual  movement,  and  lure 
of  velvet  green  mountains  and  valleys. 

Jack  slept  beside  the  cockpit  during  my  watch,  indeed  all 
night  until  his  own  watch.  The  reef  with  its  white-toothed 
breakers  could  not  have  been  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half 
away,  and  the  calm  was  absolute,  the  current  fortunately 
setting  us  on  past  danger.  At  ten  o'clock,  I  told  Tochigi, 
who  was  sitting  in  the  cabin  studying,  to  go  to  bed.  I  felt 
anxious  and  knew  I  should  not  sleep  if  I  went  below. 
Twice  the  Snark,  with  her  wheel  hard  down,  turned  com- 
pletely around.  I  was  disgusted,  and  remembered  when  a 
smaller  yacht  did  the  same  thing  with  me  in  the  bay  of  San 
Francisco,  in  the  Doldrums  off  Angel  Island. 

How  I  watched  that  line  of  reef  in  the  misty,  elusive 
moonlight.  Imagine  four  hours  at  the  wheel,  eyes  riveted 
on  the  round,  small,  vital  compass,  heart  aching  for  it  to 
indicate  some  control  of  the  boat.  The  only  rest  for  the  eyes 
was  to  strain  them  on  the  dark  shore  until  it  blurred,  or 
try  to  pierce  the  mysterious  gloom  of  the  horizon  for  lights. 
It  was  tense  business;  but  in  the  midst  of  it,  worried  and 
lonely  as  I  felt,  I  caught  myself  thinking  how  happy  I  was. 

And  now,  a  word  aside. 

In  shaping  up  the  Log  of  the  Snark  for  publication,  I  am 
forced  to  see  that  the  enthusiastic  book  I  have  written,  cov- 
ering five  months'  land  travel  and  experience  in  the  Ha- 
waiian Isles,  has  no  place  in  a  ship's  log.  Labour  of  love 
though  it  has  been,  the  recounting  of  all  those  happy  days 
of  glamour  in  our  first  landfall  must  find  itself  between 


32  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

other  covers  than  those  of  a  sea  diary.  I  must  pass  by  the 
month  in  Pearl  Harbor — Dream  Harbor,  Jack  called  it;  the 
subsequent  blissful  tent-and-surf  life  at  Waikiki;  our  days 
in  saddle  and  camp  through  the  crater  of  mighty  Halea- 
kala ;  that  amazing  week  spent  in  the  Molokai  Leper  Settle- 
ment; the  trip  on  horseback  through  the  Nahiku  Ditch 
country  on  Windward  Maui,  with  its  hair-raising  old  chief- 
trails  and  hair-breadth  swinging  bridges  over  great  water- 
falls— all  those  vivid  hours  of  living  shall  have  a  place  to 
themselves  elsewhere,  together  with  tribute  to  our  friends, 
the  Thurstons,  and  their  friends,  who  helped  us  to  know 
Hawaii  off  the  much  exploited  "tourist  route." 

Aboard  the  Snark  once  more,  after  months  of  work  on  her 
engines  in  Honolulu,  and  repairs  in  Hilo  on  that  same  work, 
we  set  our  faces  to  the  sea  again,  answering  its  clear  call  as 
we  answered  it  in  California  in  April;  as  we  shall  want  to 
answer  it,  I  am  sure,  in  all  the  months  of  all  the  years. 


Lat.     15°     8'  North, 
Lon.  151°  30'  West. 
Aboard  the  Snark  at  sea, 
Hilo,  Hawaii,  to  Marquesas  Islands, 

Monday,  October  14,  1907. 

A  week  ago  to-day  we  sailed  away  from  Hilo,  Hawaii,  on 
our  voyage  to  the  Marquesas  Islands.  So  began  the  second 
chapter  of  our  boat-adventure.  It  is  six  months  since  we 
left  San  Francisco  Bay  for  our  voyage  around  the  world,  and 
what  of  the  many  delays  connected  with  completing  the 
yacht  and  repairing  her  wrecked  engines  (wrecked  by  in- 
competent workmen),  we  have  spent  far  more  time  in  Ha- 
waii Nei  than  originally  planned.  We  cannot  be  sorry, 
however,  for  we  had  a  glorious  time  all  through.  But  here 
we  are  at  sea  again,  with  our  first  port  of  call,  Honolulu, 
hundreds  of  miles  behind  us,  and  our  next,  the  Marquesas, 
thousands  ahead  of  us — unless  this  head-wind  and  sea  shift 
and  let  us  get  on  our  proper  course.  South  28°  East  it  is, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  33 

while  we  sag  south,  due  south,  and  at  times  even  west  of 
south. 

Everything  is  dove-grey,  sky  and  sea,  and  there  are  occa- 
sional warm  showers.  I  am  tucked  snugly  away  in  a  corner 
of  the  deep  cockpit,  while  the  little  Snark  steers  herself  by- 
the-wind  as  successfully  as  ever  she  did  before  it.  Herr- 
mann de  Visser,  the  Dutch  sailor,  is  sitting  near  by  sewing 
canvas,  pushing  the  huge  sail-needle  with  a  "palm"  on  his 
hand.  And  Herrmann  is  singing  "The  Last  Rose  of  Sum- 
mer" in  Dutch,  in  a  wonderful  light  baritone  that  makes 
me  feel  selfish  in  being  the  only  listener.  Incidentally, 
Herrmann,  a  small  black  rain-hat  on  one  side  of  his  head, 
looks  as  if  he  had  just  fallen  out  of  a  Rembrandt  canvas. 
But  Rembrandt  van  Ryn  never  designed  that  tattooed  bal- 
let-girl on  Herrmann's  short  and  powerful  right  forearm — 
a  figure  that  any  muscular  movement  of  the  arm  makes 
dance  amorously. 

Martin  Johnson,  sole  survivor,  so  to  speak,  of  the  original 
crew  that  sailed  from  California  on  the  Snark,  has  come 
into  the  cockpit,  and  is  rigging  up  an  electric  light  exten- 
sion for  me  to  see  by  when  I  read  to  Jack  on  watch. 
There's  a  brown-skinned  cook  in  the  galley  now,  and  Martin 
is  flourishing  in  our  midst  as  engineer  and  electrician. 
Martin  has  made  good,  and  he  Is  the  only  man  who  was 
aboard  the  Snark  when  we  left  the  States,  who  was  not 
chosen  from  the  ranks  of  our  intimates. 

Captain  James  Langhorne  Warren,  our  Virginia  master, 
is  sitting  to  leeward  of  me  for  the  purpose  of  smoking  a 
cigar — and  bless  us  all  if  it  isn't  the  first  he's  smoked  since 
we  left  Hilo!  You  see,  the  captain  hasn't  been  feeling 
equal  to  anything  stronger  than  cigarettes  during  the  past 
week.  We  have  lost  all  false  pride  about  seasickness,  we 
of  the  Snark.  We  have  been  hopelessly,  disgracefully  sick, 
all  of  us,  except  Herrmann,  who  seems  to  enjoy  remarking 
at  irregular,  inconsiderate  intervals,  "I  do  not  know  vot 
xiasick  iss." 

It  is  comforting  to  a  captain-discouraged  yachtsman  like 


34  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Jack  to  see  the  way  Captain  Warren  runs  things.  The  boat 
has  never  looked  so  orderly;  never  were  commands  obeyed 
so  promptly;  never  was  such  forethought  shown  in  keeping 
everything  ready  for  emergency — for  the  expected  unex- 
pected. For  instance,  last  Wednesday  night,  the  9th, 
looked  squally  and  strange,  after  a  most  remarkable  sunset 
which  made  our  sensitive  barometer  oscillate;  and  before 
dusk  Captain  Warren  and  Herrmann  had  everything  on 
deck  in  readiness  for  possible  trouble  during  the  dark  hours 
— movable  articles  lashed  securely,  ropes  in  perfect  work- 
ing order.  After  all  there  was  no  blow;  but  if  there  had 
been  we  would  not  have  been  caught  napping. 

That  great  sunset  was  a  miracle  of  colour.  Who  ever  heard 
of  vivid  peacock  blue  in  the  sky?  But  it  was  there;  and 
such  turquoise  and  green  and  gold,  in  an  Oriental  riot  of 
gorgeousness.  Then  the  air  became  so  flooded  with  living 
rose  that  we  all  looked  as  if  we  had  been  feasting  on  roses 
and  the  elixir  of  youth. 

To-day  Jack  has  done  his  first  writing  since  we  left  Hilo. 
A  six-days'  vacation  is  an  unusual  thing  for  him.  Also,  he 
has  inaugurated  a  general  setting-to-rights  below,  as  to  con- 
tents of  drawers  and  lockers,  clothes,  and  so  forth.  I  am 
unable  to  join  in  the  perfumed  revel,  as  a  very  few  minutes 
below  are  enough  to  convince  me  that  I  am  not  yet  quite 
myself. 

Our  new  cabin-boy,  Nakata,  shipped  at  Hilo,  is  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  aesthetic  and  poetic-looking  Tochigi  of  the 
first  voyage.  Nakata 's  hair  far  more  resembles  a  roughly- 
used  shoebrush  than  the  glossy  "football  bang"  that 
crowned  Tochigi.  But  Nakata,  little  plebeian  that  he  is, 
has  the  body  of  a  brown  cherub  and  a  smile  that  is  inextin- 
guishable. He  seems  to  have  more  teeth  than  the  rest  of 
us,  and  shows  them  on  all  occasions  except  when  he  is  asleep. 
Also,  he  brushes  them  sedulously  for  just  fifteen  minutes 
every  morning.  When  he  slumbers,  his  funny  little  face  is 
tired  and  drawn,  for  he  has  been  and  still  is  quite  seasick. 
But  he  never  gives  over.  No  matter  what  his  qualms,  when- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  35 

ever  he  is  spoken  to  he  bobs  up  with  his  everlasting  jack-o'- 
lantern  grin  and  benevolent  interrogative  "Yes-s?" 

Wada,  the  Japanese  cook,  is  more  Indian  than  Japanese 
in  appearance,  and  so  far  has  proved  just  an  ordinary, 
greasy  sea-cook,  his  dishes  a  sad  contrast  to  Martin's  imagi- 
native cuisine.  But  Martin  and  I  are  slowly  getting  him 
into  our  ways. 

Our  prolonged  stay  in  Hilo  was  a  trial  to  us  all.  This 
was  not  the  fault  of  Hilo,  nor.  of  the  very  dear  people 
who  entertained  us  there.  The  irk  and  strain  was  from 
enforced  delay — the  dreadful  condition  of  our  70-horse- 
power  engine,  which  had  to  be  gone  all  over  again  in  Hilo, 
at  an  expense  equal  to  the  outlay  in  Honolulu,  although 
our  "friend"  'Gene  (sent  for  from  San  Francisco),  while 
knowing  better,  assured  us  that  the  engine  was  in  good  con- 
dition at  that  time.  But  that  is  of  the  vanished  yester- 
day; and  now  Martin,  in  'Gene's  place,  is  devoting  himself 
to  preventing  a  recurrence  of  the  conditions  brought  about 
by  the  latter 's  neglect. 

And  so  we  go  sailing  along  this  grey-and-gold  late  after- 
noon, involuntarily  looking  up  now  and  again  for  a  return 
of  the  splendid  dolphins  that  played  with  o;ur  hook  around 
the  stern  this  morning.  You  will  rememoer  how  utterly 
dead  was  the  ocean  those  four  weeks  from  California  to  Ha- 
waii, except  for  one  school  of  hump-backed  whale,  and  a  few, 
a  very  few  flying-fish,  and  one  small  shark  off  Maui,  that 
had  not  sense  enough  to  bite  at  boiled  ham.  Why,  this 
morning  there  was  kaku  for  breakfast — that's  the  Hawaiian 
for  it — a  fish  with  long  eel-like  body  and  sharp  head  and 
a  jaw  fitted  with  rows  of  fine  white  teeth.  But  don't  let 
me  deceive  you.  This  was  the  first  fish  ever  caught  aboard 
the  Snark  at  sea. 

Dolphins — they  are  like  all  the  living  rainbows  of  the 
aquarium  at  Honolulu  wrapped  in  azure.  They  are  all  the 
colours  of  all  the  skies  that  ever  were,  with  touches  of  solid 
green  as  green  as  solid  earth.  Brilliant  as  peacocks,  and  a 
thousand  times — 


36  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

— Oh,  this  is  too  much  excitement  for  seven  persons !  A 
thousand  porpoises  are  about  us,  the  captain  is  on  the  bow- 
sprit wielding  a  harpoon,  while  Martin  tugs  at  the  line  set 
for  dolphin,  over-stern,  and — there!  the  fish  has  carried 
away  the  hook.  The  fabulous  blue  dolphins  are  swimming 
alongside;  sunny-green  porpoises  are  darting  with  in- 
credible swiftness  all  around  and  under  the  white  yacht, 
leaping  clear  out  of  the  water,  singly  and  in  twos  and  threes, 
like  colts  over  hurdles.  Our  ocean  is  alive  at  last  with  the 
beauty  and  motion  of  the  people  of  the  sea. 

There's  a  white  and  gold  sunset  now,  like  a  flight  of 
angels  in  the  western  sky;  and  before  the  stars  come  out  I 
am  going  to  sit  and  dream  for  a  little  space  of  the  beauti- 
ful world  and  of  the  swift  sleek  forms  of  vibrant  colour  I 
have  seen  this  day. 

Lat.     14°  53'  North, 
Lon.  152°     T  West 
At  sea,  Tuesday,  October  15,  1907. 

There's  a  subtle  change  in  the  atmosphere  aboard  ship 
this  morning.  Nakata,  showing  an  unusual  number  of 
teeth,  even  for  him,  summed  it  up  in  two  words :  ' '  Seasick 
pan!"  which  last  word,  translated  from  the  original  Ha- 
waiian, means  finished,  done  away  with,  gone,  past,  elimi- 
nated— all  the  blessed  meanings  that  should  predicate  that 
dread  subject.  Fortunately,  Nakata  was  not  only  voicing 
his  own  ecstatic  state,  but  that  of  the  company  in  general. 
I  proved  my  own  recovery  by  making  the  regulation  four 
at  the  breakfast  table  below,  for  the  initial  time  this  voy- 
age. 

When  I  came  on  deck  after  breakfast,  the  captain  and 
Herrmann  dropped  their  work  (the  sewing  of  canvas  into 
ventilators,  or  "windsails"),  to  rig  up  a  little  awning  over 
the  cockpit,  so  that  I  might  write  in  comfort,  out  of  the 
glare. 

It  is  nine  o'clock,  and  Jack  has  just  gone  below  to  write 
his  thousand  words  of  the  novel  under  way.  (I  cannot  call 


I 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  37 

— 7 
the  novel  by  name  because  the  author  hasn't  been  inspired 

as  promptly  as  usual  in  his  choice  of  title.)  The  hero,  Mar- 
tin Eden,  has  been  waiting  to  make  his  first  love  to  Ruth 
all  this  week  the  author  has  been  under  the  weather. 

Jack  slept  on  deck  last  night  and  looks  a  happy,  healthy, 
blue-eyed  young  sailor  this  morning,  in  white  ducks,  the 
broad-collared  shirt  open  at  his  tanned  throat.  Before  we 
sailed  from  Hawaii  he  threatened  to  have  his  hair  clipped 
very  close  for  the  voyage;  but  my  pleading  "Oh,  not  too 
short,  please,  please!"  at  the  door  of  the  barber-shop  in 
Hilo,  saved  perhaps  an  inch.  The  present  neat  closeness  is 
rather  becoming  than  otherwise. 

I  am  so  happy.  All  the  rough  edges  of  the  first  week  at 
sea  are  smoothing  down,  and  the  spirit  of  our  surroundings 
is  getting  into  our  blood.  The  wave-tops  are  silvered  with 
flying-fish.  One  leaped  out  just  now,  cutting  the  air  like 
a  steel  sickle,  all  of  a  foot  long — the  largest  I  have  seen. 
And  where  there  are  many  flying-fish,  one  may  look  for 
dolphin.  Herrmann  didn't  catch  the  fish  for  breakfast  this 
morning  that  he  prophesied  last  night  in  the  second  dog- 
watch, and  for  which  Jack  promised  him  a  bag  of  "Bull 
Durham. " 

The  5-horse-power  engine  (which  we  call  the  "sewing- 
machine"  because  it  runs  so  easily  since  it  was  broken  and 
mended  in  Hilo),  is  pumping  electric  "juice"  for  lights  and 
fans,  and  Martin's  six  feet  of  height  are  under  deck,  which 
means  that  he  is  going  over  the  big  engine  and  putting  his 
engine-room  to  rights.  Herrmann  is  relating  some  choice 
bit  of  personal  history  to  the  captain,  of  which  I  just  now 
caught  the  information  that  somebody  lived  "four  miles  off 
the  bay  from."  The  cook,  coming  on  deck  from  the  per- 
spiring galley  to  dry  his  shirt,  is  commenting  to  the  world 
at  large  upon  the  moustache  he  has  raised  during  the  past 
week;  and  Nakata  is  making  up  for  lost  time  by  washing 
and  polishing  everything  in  the  cabin,  occasionally  bobbing 
up  to  smile  happily  at  the  universe. 

Jack  whispered  to  me  this  morning  what  he  has  not  yet 


38  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

suggested  to  the  others:  that  if  this  adverse  wind  and  sea 
continue,  he  may  decide  to  cut  the  Marquesas  Islands  from 
our  route  and  head  direct  for  Tahiti.  We  sail  and  sail  and 
get  nowhere  on  the  present  course. 

Who  has  said  "miracle  hours  after  sunset"?  Last  night, 
quitting  the  talkative  group  around  the  cockpit  during  the 
second  dog-watch  (six  to  eight),  I  went  for'ard  alone  into 
the  bows,  curled  myself  up  in  a  big  coil  of  sun-bleached 
hawser  on  a  water-tank,  and  took  a  little  trip  to  the  moon. 
The  sky  had  cleared  of  all  but  fleecy  wisps  of  cloud,  and  a 
gleaming  half -moon  and  a  few  rare  stars  hung  in  the  shin- 
ing rigging.  "What  dreams  may  come"  when  one  is  all 
alone  on  a  flying  prow,  among  the  moon  and  stars,  with  the 
sweet  wind  filling  the  wings  of  speed !  But  the  dreams  can- 
not be  told,  for  they  are  thought  in  a  language  that  was 
whispered  to  us  when  we  were  very  young,  while  listening 
to  tales  of  Karl  in  Queerland — and  to  only  the  very  young 
is  it  given  to  translate  the  language.  I  slid  back  down  a 
moonbeam  to  the  deck  very  quickly  when  a  dolphin  at  least 
three  feet  long  leaped  his  length  out  of  the  water  on  the 
lee  bow;  but  I  couldn't  get  any  anglers'  enthusiasm  out  of 
the  crowd  aft.  They  were  too  filled  with  comfort  and  moon- 
light. Jack  joined  me  after  a  while,  and  we  sat  on  a  tank 
to  leeward,  close  to  the  water,  holding  to  the  fore-jib-sheet, 
watching  the  pearly  full-rounded  canvas,  while  glistening 
spray  swished  over  the  weather  bow  above  us  and  wet  our 
faces.  It  was  the  loveliest  night  I  have  ever  seen  at  sea. 
The  memory  of  it  belongs  between  the  pictured  covers  of  a 
book  of  fairy-tales. 

Then  came  nine  hours  below,  of  which  I  slept  eight;  and 
now  the  wholesome  reality  of  the  day  is  as  beautiful  as  the 
fitful  unreality  of  the  night.  Herrmann  has  drifted  into 
"The  Last  Rose  of  Summer"  again,  and  I  cannot  work 
while  he  sings.  To  do  so  would  be  to  scorn  one  of  the  good 
things  that  bless  my  life.  There  is  a  really  Caruso-like 
quality  in  some  of  his  middle  tones.  And  while  I  am  think- 
ing about  the  ease  with  which  he  handles  his  untrained  voice, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  39 

he  airily  switches  off  into  a  spirited  rendition  of  "La  Pa- 
loma"  in  Dutch,  with  an  appropriate  catch  and  swing  that 
make  me  wonder  if  the  tattooed  lady  on  his  forearm  is  danc- 
ing to  match  the  music  while  he  plies  his  needle. 

Alternating  with  bouts  of  cribbage  we  read  up  a  few 
sheaves  of  late  San  Francisco  papers,  jerking  ourselves 
rudely  from  this  Pacific  solitude,  this  desert  of  oceans,  back 
into  the  crowded  world  of  cities  from  which  we  have  fled. 
Why,  if  we  were  cast  away  in  this  part  of  the  Pacific,  we 
should  stand  practically  no  chance  of  being  picked  up.  It 
is  out  of  the  travelled  way.  It  was  something  to  think  of, 
as  I  lay  on  a  strip  of  duck  on  the  deck,  too  ill  to  do  any- 
thing but  watch  the  veils  of  cloud  drawing  across  the  sky. 
The  world  was  a  round  blue  ball  swathed  in  clouds  like  a 
jewel  in  white  floss,  covered  by  a  blue  bowl.  Not  a  thing  in 
sight  but  blue  water  and  blue  and  white  sky;  and  through 
the  silent  picture  our  white-speck  boat  moved  upon  her  quest 
for  palm  and  coral  and  mountain-isle  and  pearls  and 
strange  simple  peoples.  We  are  all  the  world,  we  of  the 
Snark,  so  far  as  the  rest  of  the  world  is  concerned — unless 
a  sail  should  break  the  line  of  the  horizon,  when  we  would 
become  only  a  hemisphere ;  but  no  sail  pushes  up  out  of  the 
blue  of  this  painted  solitude. 

But  accidents  will  happen.  On  Friday  morning,  the  llth, 
in  the  early  hours  some  bolts  worked  loose  in  the  steering- 
gear,  and  when  I  came  on  deck  the  captain  and  Herrmann 
were  arms-down-to-shoulders  in  the  casing  around  the  rud- 
der-head, heaping  maledictions  in  several  languages  upon 
the  man  or  men  who  planned  and  executed  this  casing  so 
that  it  could  not  be  got  into  except  from  the  top.  The  teak 
cover,  upon  which  the  steersman  sits,  is  the  only  movable 
part  of  the  box  enclosing  the  steering-gear;  whereas  the  en- 
tire upper  half  of  the  box  should  be  made  so  that  it  could 
be  lifted.  Just  another  instance  of  the  outrageous  mistakes 
that  were  perpetrated  on  the  poor  little  Snark.  There  had 
been  a  stiff  squall  the  night  before,  too,  and  it  was  fortunate 
the  bolts  did  not  come  loose  then.  It  would  have  been 


40  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

cheaper  in  the  long  run  if  Jack  had  given  up  his  regular 
work  during  the  building  of  the  yacht,  and  done  the  over- 
seeing himself. 

Our  winds  have  been  fairly  fresh,  but  not  steady,  the 
best  part  of  the  week.  The  days  have  been  pretty  warm, 
and  I  find  the  coolest  spot  to  be  on  the  cockpit  floor,  where 
I  spend  hours  trying  to  read  or  write,  or  merely  watching 
the  colours  under  closed  eyelids.  That  amusement  is  always 
left,  when  one  hasn't  energy  enough  for  other  exertion. 
Some  days  the  wind  blew  harder  and  the  seas  piled  high, 
hissing  hungrily  toward  us,  usually  missing  and  going 
astern,  but  sometimes  striking  ponderously  and  snapping 
their  white  teeth  over  the  rail.  The  rougher  nights  were 
hard  on  me,  as  my  bunk,  on  the  starboard  side,  came  in  for 
all  the  jarring  weighty  blows  of  water  when  the  hull  rose 
and  fell  in  the  trough. 

One  languid  diversion  during  the  days  of  our  uselessness, 
was  the  discussion  of  who  would  gather  the  first  quart  of 
pearls  in  the  South  Seas.  It  rather  lames  the  controversy, 
however,  when  I  insist  that  the  rest  shall  give  all  their  quarts 
to  me. 

Lat.     14°     4'  North, 
Lon.  152°  56'  West. 
At  sea,  Wednesday,  October  16,  1907. 

There  was  dolphin  for  breakfast  this  morning — a  heavy, 
steak-like  sort  of  meat.  Herrmann  got  it  last  night  with 
the  granes,  an  awful  devil's-pitchfork  sort  of  implement. 
And  just  as  Herrmann  landed  his  dolphin — Jack  mean- 
while shouting  for  me  to  come  and  see  its  wondrous  tints 
in  the  moonlight — I  landed  my  cockroach,  the  second  horror 
of  its  kind  caught  aboard  the  Snark.  The  dolphin  was 
about  two  and  a  half  feet  long.  The  cockroach  about  one 
inch.  It  was  a  good  night's  catch  we  made — mine,  I 
thought,  being  the  more  important.  Another  and  larger 
dolphin  was  struck  with  the  granes,  but  tore  itself  loose; 
and  this  morning  the  poor  pretty  creature  is  swimming 
faithfully  if  rather  indiscreetly  alongside,  its  wounds  gaping 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  41 

snow-white  under  the  brine.  We  are  not  sailing  fast 
enough  to  catch  dolphins  on  the  hook.  They  are  too  clever 
to  bite  at  anything  they  have  time  to  observe  is  not  the  real 
flying-fish. 

"Who  hath  desired  the  sea,  the  sight  of  salt  water  un- 
bounded"— oh!  we  had  a  feast  of  Kipling  last  evening  in 
the  cockpit,  until  half  past  nine,  when  Jack  and  I  went  for- 
ward to  enjoy  the  moonlit  bow  again.  The  water  was  un- 
usually placid,  with  a  fair  breeze,  and  we  were  making  some 
headway,  E.S.E.  by  the  compass.  Shadowy  forms  of  dol- 
phins slipped  luminously  past  in  the  dark  flood  and  like  a 
whisper  of  the  Far  East  came  the  voices  of  the  two  Japanese 
tucked  away  in  the  life-boat  for  the  night.  Perhaps  the 
unearthly  charm  of  our  bow  may  grow  commonplace  some 
day;  but  not  yet  awhile. 

Slowly  we're  getting  everything  into  working  order. 
Yesterday  I  started  putting  to  rights  my  stateroom  lockers, 
carelessly  packed  on  leaving  port.  Writing  is  going  for- 
ward, the  captain  pursues  his  unostentatious  navigation,  the 
wonder  of  the  ocean-world  is  becoming  incorporated  into  our 
every-day  consciousness,  and  the  Snark  sails  on,  the  Snark 
sails  on. 

Herrmann  is  like  to  burst  with  pride,  for  he  has  caught 
all  the  fish  so  far.  This  morning  he  displayed  a  small  fly- 
ing-fish that  he  found  on  deck,  one  of  an  unusual  variety 
with  four  finny  wings  instead  of  two.  These  fish  dash 
blindly  over  the  rail  in  the  darkness  and  fall  to  deck 
stunned.  Just  now,  stitching  away  at  a  jib  that  was 
dragged  and  torn  under  the  forefoot  the  other  night,  Herr- 
mann is  relating  how  he  skated  one  hundred  and  ten  miles 
in  a  day,  from  one  town  to  another,  on  the  canals  in  Hol- 
land. One  day  he  explained  to  Jack  why  he  never  saves 
money.  There  was  a  time  when  he  had  three  hundred  dol- 
lars in  bank  in  New  York.  Off  the  Horn  the  main  hatch 
of  the  ship  he  was  in  was  smashed  in  a  storm,  the 
ocean  poured  in,  and  for  a  while  it  looked  as  if  the  vessel 
would  sink.  But  in  all  the  smother  of  darkness  and  water, 


42  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

obeying  orders  from  the  desperate  captain  and  mate,  Herr- 
mann's ruling  thought  in  the  very  face  of  death  was  one 
of  regret  that  he  had  not  drunk  up  that  three  hundred  dol- 
lars in  the  last  port!  Upon  reaching  Seattle  he  had  his 
money  telegraphed  to  him  from  New  York,  and  wasted  no 
time  in  spending  it.  As  Captain  Warren  has  it,  "Money's 
no  good  except  for  the  fun  you  can  buy  with  it.7' 


Lat.     13°  36'  North, 
Lon.  152°  West. 
Thursday,  October  17,  1907. 

There  are  two  factors  in  sea-voyages  that  I  cannot  recon- 
cile to  advantage,  namely,  lack  of  exercise,  and  three  meals 
a  day.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  sort  of  passive  exercise  in 
the  mere  motion  of  the  boat — continuous,  and  tiring  until 
one  gets  used  to  it,  but  not  sufficient,  in  my  case  at  least,  to 
offset  a  hearty  diet.  I  have  always  bewailed  the  absence  of 
some  sort  of  exercising-bar  on  the  boat ;  and  all  the  time  one 
has  been  staring  me  in  the  face  and  eyes  every  time  I  de- 
scended the  companion-stairs,  in  the  shape  of  the  brass 
handle-bar  at  right  angles  to  the  side-bars.  So  now  when  I 
go  below  I  usually  ' '  chin ' '  that  bar  thrice. 

Last  evening,  while  having  a  cup  of  bouillon  in  the  cock- 
pit in  lieu  of  supper  below,  I  listened  to  Herrmann's  story, 
as  he  polished  away  at  Jack's  set  of  surgical  instruments, 
of  how  he  left  Holland  in  wrath  ten  years  ago,  to  return 
no  more  to  the  bosom  of  his  family.  It  appears  that  he  was 
skipper  of  his  father's  boat  (a  ketch-rigged  vessel,  by  the 
way,  like  the  Snark),  carrying  small  cargoes  in  the  North 
Sea  and  on  the  coasts  of  England  and  Denmark.  One 
Christmas  Eve,  Herrmann  came  from  Rotterdam,  where  his 
vessel  happened  to  be,  upon  urgent  invitation  ^from  his 
family.  He  arrived  at  dinner-time  and  found  his  parents 
and  his  brothers  and  sisters  with  their  guests  around  the 
table.  Some  relative,  a  clerk  in  an  office,  commented  dis- 
agreeably upon  Herrmann's  clothes.  "He  told  me  as  I 
shouldn't  come  mit  my  father's  house  to  dinner  in  the  clothes 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  43 

as  I  was.  My  clothes  ben  all  right,  blue  English  sweater 
and  good  pants.  So  I  got  awful  mad  for  him,  and  I  told 
him  I  could  buy  all  his  clothes  a  t'ousand  times  ofer,  as  I 
ben  getting  much  money."  More  words  passed,  and  Herr- 
mann, who  I  gathered  had  been  feeling  somewhat  convivial 
when  he  arrived,  finally  "got  too  mad"  and  landed  across 
the  festive  board  on  his  antagonist's  countenance.  Herr 
de  Visser  reprimanded  his  son  for  this  breach  of  etiquette 
and  peace.  This  proved  too  much  for  Herrmann's  "mad." 
He  rose  in  outraged  dignity  and  left  the  parental  roof  for- 
ever. 1 1  And  I  told  my  father  he  would  nef er  see  me  more, ' ' 
Herrmann  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  mixed  pathos  and  de- 
fiance. 

"But  your  mother?"  I  asked. 

"Oh — she  cried  much;  she  felt  very  bad." 

Then  I:  "Why  don't  you  write  to  her,  Herrmann,  some 
day?  It  wasn't  her  fault." 

His  delft-blue  eyes  looked  past  me  across  the  sea. 

"It  iss  too  late,"  he  said,  softly.  "She  iss  dead  two 
years. ' ' 

Lat.    12°  North, 
Lon.  151°  West. 
Saturday,  October  19,  1907. 

It  was  bathing-suits  and  bucketfuls  of  salt  water  this 
morning  before  breakfast.  I  assuaged  some  of  my  yearn- 
ing for  exercise  by  hauling  in  the  canvas  bucket,  after 
which  I  replenished  wasted  tissue  with  a  fairly  stout 
breakfast.  Wada  is  doing  nobly  with  the  cooking.  He  goes 
on  his  independent  way,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  until 
some  suggestion  is  made,  whereupon  he  devotes  himself  to 
learning  a  different  way. 

We  feel  so  very  husky,  drying  our  bathing-suits  on  us  in 
fresh  breeze  and  sun.  The  particular  northerly  wind  our 
skipper  has  been  whistling  for,  sprang  up  last  evening  in 
the  dog-watch,  after  a  day  of  calm  that  looked  suspiciously 
like  the  Doldrums  (far  north  of  the  Equator  as  we  are), 
and  during  which  we  ran  our  crippled  big  engine  for  an 


44  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

hour  or  so.  But  the  crank-bearings  heated  badly,  and  we 
flapped  on  the  rest  of  the  day  by  sail,  but  didn't  flap  far. 
With  the  wind  came  a  smart  shower,  and  we  hung  out  some 
of  our  clothes  to  wash. 

Sitting  around  the  cockpit  afternoons,  reading  Melville's 
fascinating  Typee  and  Eobert  Louis  Stevenson's  and  his 
mother's  books  on  the  Marquesas  and  Tahiti,  we  long  more 
than  ever  to  get  forward  into  the  South  Sea.  And  it  is  a 
wonderful  thing  we  are  doing — full  of  romance  and  colour. 
Even  while  we  are  being  held  back  from  the  Line  by  this 
calm,  we  have  with  us  beauty  rare  and  unforgettable.  The 
calm  ocean  is  a  disc  of  sapphire  encircled  by  a  rim  of  clouds. 
Once,  watching  that  wounded  dolphin  which  still  follows  us, 
we  noticed  that  the  smooth  blue  water,  through  a  trick  of 
light,  seemed  to  be  dotted  with  bluer  pools — something  like 
the  effect  of  oil  on  water. 

But  the  calm  is  gone,  and  now  we  are  travelling  on  our 
course,  east  by  north ;  and  it  is  cool  and  fresh  in  the  shade 
of  the  cockpit  awning. 

Jack  called  to  me  the  other  day  and  said  he  had  some- 
thing to  ask  of  me — that,  every  time  I  came  on  deck,  I 
should  look  around  over  the  water.  "This  is  a  lonely  sea, 
Mate,  and  there  might  be  some  poor  devil  in  distress."  I 
told  him  I  rather  thought  I  already  had  the  habit  of  look- 
ing around  the  horizon  a  great  deal.  "Yes;  but  make  it 
your  duty  to  do  it  every  time  you  come  on  deck."  Well, 
men  have  been  lost  for  the  lack  of  a  dutiful  eye  in  this  re- 
gard, and  I'm  going  to  be  very  watchful. 

I'm  afraid  Herrmann  isn't  quite  equal  to  some  of  Jack's 
jokes.  The  latter  announced  lately  that  he  wanted  Martin 
and  Herrmann  to  do  two  things  for  him  on  this  trip  around 
the  world — Martin  at  some  time  to  get  a  baby  monkey  for 
roasting,  and  Herrmann,  for  the  same  purpose,  a  baby  can- 
nibal. Martin  reports  that  Herrmann  said  to  him  with  an 
aggrieved  expression,  "I  couldn't  shoot  a  little  baby!" 


, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  45 

Lat.     11°    7'  North, 

Lon.  150°  33'  West. 

Sunday,  October  20,  1907. 

This  was  a  morning  to  put  the  fear  of  Nature  into  the 
heart  of  a  tyro  at  sea-going.  I  came  on  deck  at  seven,  after 
what  had  seemed  to  me  a  rough  night,  and  found  the  cap- 
tain at  the  wheel,  closely  watching  a  black  sky  ahead,  Herr- 
mann shortening  sail,  and  all  preparations  being  made  for 
trouble.  Then  one  of  the  teak  top-doors  of  the  companion- 
way  descended  upon  my  head  and  I  went  below  for 
a  few  minutes  to  nurse  my  wrongs.  There  are  plenty  of 
ways  to  get  hurt  in  squally  weather  on  a  small  vessel.  Yes- 
terday accidents  were  rife,  a  cut  finger  apiece  for  Martin 
and  Herrmann,  and  for  me  a  thumb  jammed  in  a  heavy 
water-tight-compartment  door. 

Next,  the  mizzen  was  taken  in,  and  the  motion  gentled 
down  a  little.  After  breakfast  we  ran  well  into  the  squalls 
of  rain,  and  the  men  soaped  their  bodies  and  washed  their 
clothes  in  the  rain-water  that  stood  in  the  slack  of  the  can- 
vas boat-covers;  while  Jack  and  I  had  a  novel  bath  in 
the  curtained  cockpit,  rain  coming  down  on  us  and  dripping 
from  the  mizzen  boom  also.  The  only  complaint  just  now 
is  that  after  our  thorough  soaping  the  rain  stopped  and  we 
had  to  put  on  our  clothes  without  rinsing  off  the  lather! 
Dry  bathing-suits  are  the  clothes,  however,  and  when  it 
rains  again  we'll  take  another  wetting.  The  captain  said 
he  guessed  a  bucket  of  fresh  water  could  be  spared  for  com- 
pleting my  shampoo.  He  holds  every  one  else  down  close 
when  it  comes  to  using  our  water  store.  I  am  very  econom- 
ical, though — for  I  try  to  realise  what  it  would  mean  to  be 
out  of  water  at  sea,  and  this  promises  to  be  a  long  voyage. 
A  very  little  water,  with  a  drop  or  so  of  strong  ammonia, 
goes  a  long  way  toward  keeping  one  clean. 

It  was  great  fun  bathing  in  the  rain — you  haven't  any 
idea  how  something  unusual  like  this  varies  the  monotony 
of  seafaring,  however  pleasant  that  monotony  may  be. 

Now,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  weather  has  moderated  and  the 


46  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sun  is  trying  to  come  out.  There  is  a  great  amount  of 
movement,  however,  and  none  of  us  feels  any  too  well.  Per- 
sons who  are  going  to  be  seasick  ought  to  be  broken  in  with 
a  gale  immediately  upon  sailing.  The  best  I  can  do  this 
morning  in  the  way  of  work,  with  any  degree  of  comfort, 
is  to  lie  in  my  bunk  and  use  a  pencil.  I  had  hoped  to  get 
at  Jack's  typewriting,  but  the  very  thought  makes  my  nar- 
row walls  revolve.  I  am  so  glad  they  are  even  approximately 
white  walls, — though  even  now,  after  two  thorough  coats  of 
white  enamel  paint,  old  Captain  Rosehill's  salmon-pink  coat- 
ing shows  through.  Captain  Rosehill  was  Roscoe's  suc- 
cessor, and  served  as  harbour  captain  while  the  Snark  was 
in  Hawaii. 

We  have  learned  something  startling.  Yesterday  Jack 
was  reading  in  the  South  Sea  Directory  the  report  of  an  old- 
time  mariner  concerning  the  difficulty  of  fetching  the  Mar- 
quesas and  Society  Islands,  from  Hawaii,  on  account  of  ad- 
verse wind  and  sea.  He  went  so  far  as  to  hint  at  its  being 
practically  an  impossible  traverse.  So  we  are  on  the  way 
to  doing  something  impossible,  are  we?  Well,  we  have 
started,  and  it  is  easier  to  think  of  the  impossibility  of  the 
trip  for  other  people  than  for  ourselves.  We  have  just  got 
to  make  the  Marquesas. 

Lat.     11°  North, 
Lon.  149°  5(T  West. 
Monday,  October  21,  1907. 

Two  weeks  ago  to-day  we  left  Hilo,  figuring  on  three  or 
four  weeks  for  our  passage  to  the  Marquesas.  Yesterday 
Captain  Warren  remarked  that  it  might  be  fifty  days  yet 
before  we  see  them.  A  Hilo  friend's  anxious  questions,  at 
parting,  as  to  whether  we  really  expected  to  reach  our 
destination,  will  probably  recur  to  her  mind  several  times 
before  our  arrival  is  listed.  Most  persons  seem  unable  to 
comprehend  that  we  are  not  deliberately  suicidal. 

It's  hard  sailing  this  morning,  in  a  big  sea  with  steady 
wind.  Yesterday  we  seemed  to  be  sailing;  there  was  abun- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  47 

dance  of  movement,  but  it  was  mostly  up  and  down — a 
troubled  cross-sea  and  strong  head-wind. 

Just  after  the  stormy  sunset  and  sudden  twilight  yester- 
night, the  moon  showed  dead  ahead,  a  burning  copper  disc 
melting  its  way  through  a  wall  of  lead.  Then  happened 
one  of  the  amazes  of  the  sea.  Out  of  the  turmoil  of  wind 
and  mounting  waves,  out  of  the  whirling  chaos  of  the  low 
overtaking  sky,  we  sailed  right  through  the  leaden  wall  into 
a  night  of  perfect  tranquillity,  lit  by  an  incredible  burst  of 
moon  and  stars.  It  was  a  revelation,  this  peaceful  ocean 
and  dry  north  breeze  and  sparkling  firmament.  It  was  like 
the  shifting  of  colossal  scenery  in  some  marvellous  spectacle. 
The  stars  were  too  large  and  bright  to  be  anything  but 
tinsel  and  electric  light;  the  sky  was  far  too  purple  for  a 
real  night-sky,  and  the  billows  of  woolly  clouds  too  massy 
and  tangible  to  be  mere  vapours  of  sea-water. 

Lat.      9°  45'  North, 
Lon.  136°  17'  West. 
Monday,  November  4,  1907. 

Death  is  farthest  from  one's  thoughts  these  pleasant,  busy 
days  of  semi-calm,  when  there  is  just  breeze  enough  to  slip 
us  along  slowly  over  the  smoothly  rolling  flood.  We  are 
complete  in  our  little  working-world;  the  domestic  ma- 
chinery cogs  along  much  the  same  as  in  a  land-home.  There 
is  little  danger  of  any  one  falling  overboard  unless  he  is 
attacked  by  vertigo,  and  we  are  in  a  live  world  in  which 
death,  I  say,  does  not  occur  to  our  minds.  But  when,  after 
such  days,  and  placid  evenings  spent  in  the  starlight  with 
music  and  singing  and  poesy,  one  is  startled  into  conscious- 
ness at  midnight  by  being  let  down  suddenly  against  the 
bunk-rail,  and  the  further  sensation  of  going  on  over,  end- 
lessly, endlessly — then  death  is  the  first  flashing  thought. 
It  might  not  be  so  to  one  in  the  open,  on  deck ;  but  a  closed 
forward  stateroom,  in  a  small  yacht,  is  a  trap.  It  may  mean 
death  by  drowning,  or,  what  is  worse,  sharks.  Sharks  are 
.no  myth  in  this  populous  Pacific — as  the  jaw  of  a  young 


48  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

six-footer,  drying  its  twelve  rows  of  fine  saw-teeth  on  the 
mizzen  pin-rail,  grimly  attests.  It  all  darted  through  my 
brain  when  the  squall  smote,  and  I  went  over  the  rail  of  my 
high  bunk  and  landed  on  the  five-by-two  floor  with  an 
agility  I  would  not  have  thought  possible.  Theretofore  I 
had  always  taken  off  the  rail  before  climbing  carefully 
down.  I  turned  on  the  electric  bulb,  cleared  up  fallen 
things  as  best  I  could,  got  on  my  clothes  somehow  or  other, 
all  the  while  wondering  if  the  boat  would  ever  right.  My 
heart  was  beating  in  my  throat  with  the  suddenness  and 
manner  of  my  awakening ;  while  my  head  told  me  I  was  not 
needed  on  deck,  in  spite  of  an  urgent  desire  to  get  out  from 
under,  for  I  knew  that  every  man  was  up  and  doing.  A. 
woman  may  be  a  very  small  item  in  the  way  of  usefulness 
in  stress  at  sea;  but  there  is  always  something  to  be  done, 
and  after  our  careless  days  of  placid  weather  things  below 
had  not  been  wedged  in  as  tightly  as  usual. 

I  was  glad  to  get  out  and  up  on  deck  in  the  driving 
smother.  I  "  tooted "  to  Jack,  while  groping  my  clinging 
way  to  the  wheel,  and  tried  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  as  to  what 
was  happening — which  is  asking  too  much  with  regard  to 
a  tropical  gale  in  the  dead  of  night.  A  sailor  cannot  see, 
he  can  only  feel;  and  what  he  feels  is  a  powerful  gust  that 
puts  the  vessel  over  and  keeps  her  down,  while  he  takes  in 
sail  and  wonders  what  is  behind  the  awful  blackness  to  wind- 
ward. So  when  I  said  to  Jack  at  the  wheel,  "What  is  it?" 
he  could  merely  answer,  "I  don't  know."  No  one  knows. 
It  is  black,  it  is  blowing  like  a  gale  but  it  may  be  only  a 
rain-squall,  over  in  ten  minutes. 

One  thing  gratifies  me:  Jack  and  the  skipper  never  try 
to  reassure  me  at  the  expense  of  their  own  veracity.  I 
begged  this  of  them  at  the  start.  So  I  get  the  best  there  is 
to  be  had  of  their  frank  opinions.  I  want  to  know,  and 
I  ought  to  know ;  and  they  treat  me  in  this)  respect  as  ' '  one 
of  the  boys. ' ' 

So  Jack  "didn't  know";  all  he  was  sure  of  was  that  with 
the  sudden  onslaught  of  the  wind  he  awoke  in  the  life-boat, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  49 

aware  of  Captain  Warren  streaking  past  him  to  the  main- 
boom  tackle,  for  the  squall  had  burst  in  the  opposite  quarter 
from  a  light  breeze  that  had  been  filling  the  sails.  The 
celerity  with  which  Jack  must  have  landed  from  his  bed 
on  the  canvas  cover  of  the  boat  amidship,  into  the  cockpit 
and  to  the  wheel,  is  partially  told  by  a  huge  rent  in  the 
nether  garment  which  adorned  his  person  at  the  time,  and 
which  I  have  just  finished  repairing. 

Nakata  was  steering  when  the  squall  smote,  and  immedi- 
ately spoke  to  the  captain,  asleep  on  deck  alongside.  The 
captain  is  quick  as  lightning,  and  had  things  straightened 
out  in  no  time.  Fortunately  the  Snark  is  stiff,  and  shows 
no  signs  of  turning  turtle ;  so  that  while  the  man  at  the  wheel 
eases  her  along  in  the  violent  puffs  of  wind,  the  others  have 
time  to  handle  the  sails  without  fear  of  capsizing.  When 
I  came  up,  Martin  and  Herrmann  were  taking  in  the  flying- 
jib  and  sails  and  Jack  was  succeeding  in  keeping  the  yacht 
before  the  wind.  How  I  love  men,  and  the  work  men  do! 
Jack,  keen  at  his  task  of  steering  in  the  squall — the  sturdy 
little  wheel  flying  under  his  hands;  the  men  forward  hold- 
ing on  by  their  eyebrows  while  they  took  in  the  jib ;  the  cap- 
tain everywhere;  Nakata,  cheerily  fastening  down  the 
weather-skylight  and  taking  bedding  below — men,  men,  all 
brave  men,  doing  their  fighting  work  in  the  world. 

And  death  receded  into  dim  distance  with  the  interest  and 
excitement  of  our  little  battle  with  the  forces  of  out-doors, 
as  the  small  Snark  buckled  down  to  carrying  every  thread 
of  her  working  canvas,  which  was  re-set  shortly  when  the 
wind  grew  no  worse.  The  captain's  voice  broke  warmly 
as  he  spoke  of  the  way  she  did  it,  and  the  way  she  minded 
the  helm.  He  is  very  emotional.  Why,  the  other  day  when 
he  had  that  shark  on  the  hook  over  the  stern,  I  thought  he 
would  weep  with  excitement  and  disappointment  for  very 
fear  that  Herrmann  would  not  slip  the  bowline  over  the 
creature's  tail  in  time.  He  was  afraid  the  hook  alone  would 
not  hold  it. 

The  squall  blew  itself  out  shortly,  leaving  us  a  good  sail- 


50  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ing-breeze,  and  we  went  below  and  finished  our  sleep.  But 
such  an  experience  clinched  what  old  sailors  tell  of  the 
treachery  of  these  latitudes,  where  the  wind  slaps  out  of 
unexpected  quarters  at  unexpected  times,  and  in  the  night 
at  least  no  man  knows  what  lurks  behind  the  darker  dark 
to  windward.  .  .  .  Captain  Warren,  sitting  at  the  wheel, 
nods  appreciatively  at  what  I  have  written. 

Although  personal  death  does  not  press  upon  us  in  pleas- 
ant weather,  there  is  doom  all  around  for  the  lesser  things, 
swift  and  pursuing.  For  four  days  countless  myriads  of 
small  fish  resembling  mackerel  have  been  leaping  and  glinting 
around  the  ship,  driven  by  tireless  enemies  below,  and  meet- 
ing pain  and  disaster  at  the  surface  from  the  ravenous 
young  gunies  scanning  the  deep  from  above.  It  is  some- 
thing like  the  tragedy  of  the  flying-fish  caught  between 
dolphin  and  frigate-birds.  Of  this  an  old  chronicler  of  the 
sixteenth  century  writes: 

"There  is  another  kind  of  fish  (the  flying-fish)  as  big 
almost  as  a  herring,  which  hath  wings  and  flieth,  and  they 
are  together  in  great  number.  These  have  two  enemies; 
the  one  in  the  sea,  the  other  in  the  air.  In  the  sea,  the 
fish  which  is  called  the  Albacore,  as  big  as  a  salmon,  f ollow- 
eth  them  with  great  swiftness  to  take  them.  This  poor  fish 
not  being  able  to  swim  fast,  for  he  hath  no  fins,  but 
swimmeth  with  the  moving  his  tail,  shutting  his  wings, 
lifteth  himself  above  the  water,  and  flieth  not  very  high. 
The  Albacore  seeing  this,  although  he  have  no  wings,  yet 
giveth  a  great  leap  out  of  the  water,  and  sometimes  catcheth 
him ;  or  else  he  keepeth  himself  under  the  water,  going  that 
way  as  fast  as  the  other  flieth.  And  when  the  fish,  being 
weary  of  the  air,  or  thinking  himself  out  of  danger,  re- 
turneth  into  the  water,  the  Albacore  meeteth  with  him ;  but 
sometimes  his  other  enemy,  the  sea-crow,  catcheth  him  be- 
fore he  falleth." 

Jack  has  been  taking  a  hand  this  morning  in  the  carnage, 
or  trying  to,  getting  out  some  of  the  pretty  tackle  we  used 
to  unpack  so  gleefully  at  Glen  Ellen  when  the  orders  were 


Her  Trick  at  the  Wheel 


Jack  Harpooning 


Wada's    Dolphin 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  51 

filled  from  the  East.  But  the  fish  were  too  busy  with  the 
other  form  of  death  to  be  caught  by  this  lure  of  bright  steel 
and  colour. 

We  have  fared  better  in  the  matter  of  wind  during  the 
past  two  weeks.  On  the  22d,  at  4 :30  p.  M.,  a  squall  came 
up  that  sent  us  spinning  along  at  six  knots  during  the 
following  hour,  in  the  right  direction;  and  the  second  day 
following,  good  winds  started  that  kept  us  well  on  our 
course  for  several  days.  Everybody  aboard  is  happier  when 
the  Snark  is  holding  her  own,  especially  the  captain,  upon 
whom  a  dead  calm  has  a  very  bad  effect,  and  during  which 
his  temper  is  short  and  his  language,  on  the  side,  when  I 
am  not  supposed  to  be  within  hearing,  is  hardly  elegant. 

It  is  a  splendid  sight,  a  rain-squall  coming  over  the  water 
in  the  daylight.  It  resembles  a  dust-storm  or  low  rolling 
hills — fairly  smoking  along;  and  when  the  dust  of  the  rain 
arrives  you  do  not  run  for  shelter,  but  just  stand  and  enjoy 
the  warm  drenching.  This  morning  Jack  and  I  stood  by  the 
weather  shrouds  forward,  watching  it  come  from  the  north- 
east, the  nearer  waters  broken  by  leaping  fish. 

We  are  in  the  Doldrums  now,  variable  winds  and  frequent 
showers,  whereas  in  the  Variables  there  was  more  wind  and 
less  rain. 

The  horizons  are  dreams  of  cloud-beauty  on  the  still  days ; 
or,  toward  late  afternoon  when  a  light  breeze  sends  us 
smoothly  ahead,  we  may  see  low-lying  clouds  of  blue,  the 
clouds  themselves  blue,  and  out  of  the  low  pillowy  clouds  on 
the  horizon  will  puff  up  bursts  of  white  that  tint  through 
with  rose  and  gold  as  the  sun  goes  down,  while  we  sit  with 
faces  glorified  by  the  rose  of  the  west  and  the  wine  of  the 
sunset  sea. 


Lat.       9°  37'  North, 
Lon.  135°  18'  West. 
Tuesday,  November  5,  1907. 

It  has  surprised  me,  as  we  have  drawn  nearer  to  the  Equa- 
tor, that  it  has  not  been  warmer.    "  Stark  calm  on  the  lap  of 


52  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  line  "  as  we  are,  the  heat  is  not  distressing.  Of  course,  one 
would  not  choose  to  be  in  the  sun  for  long  at  midday;  but 
there  has  been  nothing  unusual  about  the  temperature.  To- 
day, however,  is  quite  hot  enough  for  an  introduction  to  the 
Line.  A  hat  and  green  visor  scarce  shade  one's  eyes.  I 
was  fairly  blinded  just  now  when  I  took  up  some  linen  things 
to  bleach  on  the  launch-cover.  Head  and  eyes  ache  from 
the  brassy  glare,  and  I  am  going  to  take  better  care  of  them 
and  wear  a  hat  oftener,  although  I  love  the  warm  colour  of 
the  sun-burn  on  my  hair. 

Keeping  clothes  from  mildewing  and  yellow-spotting  is  a 
ceaseless  responsibility,  and  deterioration  of  silk  is  appalling. 
A  large  portion  of  Nakata's  time  is  employed  in  taking  on 
deck  and  returning  below  our  bedding  and  wearing  ap- 
parel. Just  now  I  am  burning  an  electric  extension  in  my 
crowded  closet-locker,  to  offset  the  dampness,  while  a  mass 
of  holokus  and  other  summery  garments  is  on  my  bed  bene- 
fiting by  sunshine  that  filters  through  the  decklight.  There 
is  one  compensation,  however,  for  the  trouble  of  over- 
hauling, and  that  is  the  pleasure  of  handling  pretty  things. 
My  every-day  garb  on  the  boat  is  of  a  kind  that,  while  com- 
fortable and  even  picturesque  (according  to  Jack),  makes 
me  appreciate  the  sight  of  more  feminine  and  dainty  pos- 
sessions. You  see,  the  grime  of  San  Francisco  has  not  yet 
quite  worn  from  our  ropes  and  tackle ;  and  after  completely 
ruining  one  silken  bloomer-suit  I  said  " Never  again,"  and 
adopted  pajamas,  rolled  up  at  knee  and  elbow,  as  Jack  wears 
them.  In  such  a  suit  of  white,  black-figured,  with  a  piratical 
touch  of  red  at  waist  and  neck,  I  go  my  free  and  barefoot 
way.  As  for  the  crew,  they  seem  to  take  everything  I  do 
as  a  matter  of  course,  without  comment  of  eye  or  lip. 

I  am  not  the  first  observer  in  the  world  who  has  noted  that 
most  persons  long  to  be  something  for  which  they  are  not 
fitted  by  nature.  Nakata  is  no  exception.  His  desire  is  to 
be  a  blond,  and  he  waxes  ecstatic  over  my  burned  locks. 
' '  Bee-i/M-ti-f ill,  Missisn  ! "  he.  cries  innocently,  his  gaze  lin- 
gering on  my  hair  as  I  brush  it  in  the  sun.  Now  he  is  wild 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  53 

with  a  bird-like  delight  over  my  suggestion  that  we  bleach 
his  stiff  black  poll.  I  am  equally  keen  for  the  lark,  but  there 
is  no  peroxide  aboard.  Martin,  I  think,  has  leanings  toward 
brigandage,  judging  by  the  desperately  evil  look  he  attains 
by  wearing  a  blue-and-white  bandana  around  his  head  in 
lieu  of  a  hat.  He  has  lost  overboard  some  eight  hats  and 
caps  since  we  left  San  Francisco,  and  is  now  reduced  to  a 
bandana,  and  his  precious  Baden-Powell,  and  he  is  afraid 
of  losing  that.  I  do  not  know  in  what  character  Jack  would 
be  scintillating,  if  he  could  find  the  scarlet  bathing-suit 
he  is  hunting  for — a  new  one  bought  in  Hilo ;  but  it  has  dis- 
appeared, either  tucked  away  as  things  aboard  the  Snark  are 
too  often  tucked  away  and  lost  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
or  else  stolen  before  we  sailed.  Our  shelf-copy  of  The  Sea 
Wolf  is  gone,  too,  and  a  book-proof  copy  of  The  Iron  Heel. 
And  neither  Jack  nor  I  has  a  sou  'wester — both  stolen,  as  far 
as  we  can  judge.  I  wear  the  captain 's,  at  his  urgent  solicita- 
tion, although  it  is  not  fair  to  him,  and  Jack  goes  around  in 
his  old  rummage-sale  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  the  age  of  which  is 
beyond  guessing.  As  for  me,  I  am  posing  as  the  happiest 
and  luckiest  girl  in  the  world,  and  it  is  an  easy  role. 

Now  let  me  tell  about  that  six-foot-five  shark  we  caught — 
the  first  ever  landed  on  the  Snark.  The  captain  got  it  with 
a  salt-pork-baited  hook  over  the  stern;  Herrmann  slipped  a 
bowline  under  it,  and  then  shot  it  in  the  head  several  times. 
But  it  died  hard,  thrashing  on  the  deck  a  long  time  after 
the  men  got  it  inboard.  Of  course,  it  was  hung  up  and 
photographed — strange,  vicious  monster,  with  eyes  like  a 
cat,  yellowish,  slit-pupiled,  and  with  a  cat's  disinclination 
to  give  up  the  fight  for  life.  It  still  thrashed  about  even 
after  most  of  its  internal  economy  had  gone  overboard.  I 
never  have  heard  a  description  of  the  eye  of  a  shark,  and  its 
resemblance  to  the  feline  optic  struck  me  instantly.  "The 
tiger  of  the  sea,"  to  be  sure — why,  it  ought  to  have  cat's 
eyes.  This  shark  of  ours  was  a  specimen  of  the  man-eating 
variety,  with  twelve  fearsome  rows  of  saw-edged  teeth.  The 
meat  of  the  shark  is  good  and  sweet,  and  not  dry ;  but  sailors 


54  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

do  not  care  for  it — probably  because  of  their  hatred  of  its 
propensity  for  human  meat. 

But  sharks  have  annoyances  of  their  own,  one  of  these 
being  a  black  sucker — remora — that  clings  to  it  as  a  sea- 
anernone  clings  to  a  rock,  a  marine  vermin  that  can  hardly 
be  soothing  to  the  shark.  The  longest  we  pulled  off  was 
about  ten  inches.  The  clinging-muscles  of  the  slippery  pest 
are  under  its  head,  under  the  jaw,  if  it  can  be  called  a 
jaw.  At  first  we  thought  these  parasites  were  young  sharks. 
So  tightly  did  they  stick,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
pull  them  loose  while  they  lived.  And  now  all  that  is  left 
of  our  first  shark  are  the  jaws,  drying  on  the  pin-rail,  and 
the  vertebra,  strung  at  the  mizzen-masthead. 

There  were  many  dolphins  swimming  around  us  the  morn- 
ing we  got  the  shark,  Saturday,  the  2nd — an  orgy  of  colour 
in  the  sun-shot  azure  of  the  water.  It  was  one  of  the  days 
when  the  water  is  pale  sapphire  through  which  the  sun-rays 
focus  deep  down  in  long  slanting  funnels  of  quivering  golden 
light.  The  shark  was  attended  by  dozens  of  its  black-and- 
white  striped  pilot-fish,  and  there  were  several  bonitos 
around  also. 

Later.  A  small  shark  is  following  us  this  afternoon,  but 
in  a  listless  fashion  that  indicates  a  full  stomach.  It  chased 
a  big  dolphin  out  of  the  water,  and  the  pursued  fish  took  a 
shoot  of  at  least  seven  feet  over  the  surface — a  curving  blade 
of  flashing  blue. 

The  first  Portuguese  men-o'-war  that  we  have  seen  since 
we  left  Hilo,  have  shown  up  lately — one  day  a  solitary  little 
silver  sail,  and  the  next  day  myriads.  Just  here  I  am  re- 
minded of  the  " nature-fake"  discussion  that  is  raging  in 
the  United  States.  It  appears  that  Mr.  John  Burroughs  has 
incurred  the  displeasure  of  a  correspondent  of  the  Outlook, 
by  stating  that  ''the  Physalia,  or  Portuguese  man-o'-war, 
has  a  kind  of  sail  in  its  air-sack  that  helps  it  sail  to  wind- 
ward." The  irritated  correspondent  jumps  back  with: 
1  'It  does  nothing  of  the  kind;  it  cannot  sail  to  windward, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  55 

and  it  never  did;  it  drifts  to  leeward."  But  another  critic 
out-Burroughs  Mr.  Burroughs,  as  follows: 

"The  physalia  has  three  masts,  all  square-rigged,  and  in 
windward  work  easily  lies  within  three  points  of  the  wind. 
Going  large  he  runs  under  bare  poles.  In  the  Bay  of 
Barataria  I  have  often  seen  a  squadron  of  these  Portuguese 
men-o'-war  with  stunsails  set,  beating  to  windward  to  get 
the  weather  gauge  on  a  Spanish  omelet,  then  furling  every- 
thing and  running  down  the  wind  to  their  less  active  victim. 
The  nautilus  has  sails  too,  only  it  is  barkentine-rigged,  and 
in  running  sometimes  sets  a  lower  f oretopsail. " 

One  day,  when  the  men  were  overhauling  the  fore-peak, 
eight  infant  rats,  with  their  mother,  were  killed.  We  hoped 
they  were  all  settled,  but  since  then  traces  of  another  have 
been  found.  Probably  it  comes  into  the  galley  at  night  for 
water,  as  there  is  none  handy  anywhere  else,  all  tanks  being 
of  galvanized  iron,  with  no  seepage.  Captain  Warren  says 
that  aboard  ships  a  rat  will  gnaw  almost  through  a  water- 
cask,  contenting  itself  with  the  moisture  oozing  through, 
rather  than  letting  the  water  out  freely  and  losing  it  all. 

We  have  been  practising  with  our  rifles  this  afternoon — 
the  first  time  I  've  had  a  gun  in  my  hands  since  the  heavy  rifle 
on  Molokai,  when  I  hit  the  target  at  two  hundred  yards. 
To-day  we  were  trying  at  pieces  of  wood  and  cans  on  the 
water.  Perhaps,  before  the  day  is  over,  Jack  will  have  a 
chance  at  the  shark. 

Try  as  we  may  to  forget  the  inexcusable  blunders  in  the 
building  of  the  Snark,  and  the  persons  who  are  inexcusably 
responsible,  things  hitherto  unknown  keep  creeping  out  to 
make  us  more  than  ever  sick  of  commercial  civilisation. 
The  men  who  sailed  with  us  from  San  Francisco  insisted 
upon  the  honesty  of  those  who  betrayed  us  in  the  building 
of  our  boat — even  insisted  in  the  face  of  evidence  to  the 
contrary  as  strong  as  what  came  to  light  yesterday  morning, 
when  Captain  Warren  found  the  deck-beams  forward  of  our 
staterooms,  where  they  were  not  likely  to  be  discovered,  to 


56  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

be  pine  instead  of  the  fine  oak  beams  that  were  ordered  and 
paid  for  in  the  east  and  delivered  at  the  shipyard.  To  be 
sure,  many  a  good  ship's  deck-beams  are  pine;  but  that  is 
not  the  point:  the  shipbuilders  substituted  beams  that  cost 
about  $2.50  apiece,  for  beams  that  cost  us  about  $7.50 
apiece.  What  became  of  the  oak?  But  this  is  not  the 
worst.  The  bitts  forward,  upon  the  strength  of  which  de- 
pends our  safety  when  at  anchor,  is  a  ghastly  bluff.  About 
one  quarter  of  it  reaches  as  it  should  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  boat;  the  other  three  quarters  are  supposed  to  go 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat — but  do  not.  A  magnificent 
great  beam  of  oak  to  look  upon — it  stops  short  at  the  deck, 
a  farce,  another  heart-breaking  reminder  of  the  way  the 
''honest"  men  treated  us  in  the  States.  The  rotten  wrought 
iron — it  still  goes  back  on  us,  here  and  there;  the  deck- 
planking  full  of  butts,  ordered  without  butts  and  paid  for 
accordingly;  the  pitiful  futile  engine.  But  I  haven't  told 
about  the  engine.  After  paying  out  five  hundred  dollars 
more  in  Hilo  on  repairs  to  it,  now,  after  working  it  at  half- 
speed  (it  would  go  no  faster)  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  hours 
altogether  since  we  sailed  a  month  ago,  the  engine  is  pau, 
and  cannot  be  used  again  until  another  machine-shop  is 
handy,  which  will  not  be  until  we  reach  Papeete,  Tahiti. 
Even  the  engineer  in  Hilo,  our  last  hope,  let  us  go  out  to 
sea  with  an  engine  he  knew  for  a  joke,  and  with  some  new 
faults  of  which  he  did  not  tell  us,  although  he  knew  them, 
according  to  Martin.  Why  Martin  did  not  give  us  the  bene- 
fit of  his  information,  I  do  not  know. 

From  the  engine  room  at  intervals  comes  a  heavy  sigh. 
It  is  certainly  appropriate,  and  quite  affecting,  even  if  it 
is  produced  by  a  metal  valve !  It  is  an  expensive  valve,  by 
the  way,  installed  in  Hilo,  doubly  expensive  because  it  is  a 
failure.  Ah,  well — cold  world  and  warm  friend,  it  has  been 
all  one  to  Jack  and  me  where  the  building  of  the  Snark  is 
concerned.  But  we  have  each  other  and  the  fair  sky  and 
water  all  about  us,  and  we  are  alive  and  living  in  spite  of 
them  all. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  57 

Lat      9°    4'  North, 
Lon.  134°  15'  West. 
Wednesday,  November  6,  1907. 

Have  I  said  before  that  we  are  over  half-way  to  the  Mar- 
quesas?— and  already  a  month  at  sea.  There  are  potatoes 
for  four  more  days;  and  with  the  potatoless  prospect  arise 
vague  longings  for  fresh  taro,  and  poi,  cocoanuts,  and  bread- 
fruit! We  shall  be  glad  enough  to  welcome  land  and  trees 
and  growing  things.  But  Jack  and  I  are  not  in  the  slight- 
est sense  bored  by  the  long  passage — we  haven't  time  to  do 
the  things  we  want  to  do.  The  captain  frets  and  chafes 
sorely,  however,  although  after  a  particularly  crusty  spell, 
he  usually  laughs  at  himself  and  explains  again  what  it 
means  to  a  captain  to  have  a  vessel  held  back. 

We  thought  we  had  made  an  important  discovery.  It 
seems  that  the  mackerel  fishing-grounds  of  the  world  have 
been  practically  deserted  of  late  years,  and  no  one  knows 
where  the  fish  have  migrated.  Here,  in  this  lonely  part  of 
the  Pacific,  we  began  to  think  we  had  solved  the  problem. 
But  the  books  tell  us  that  mackerel  are  not  to  be 
found  far  from  land,  so  this  boiling  sea  of  fish  through 
which  we  have  been  sailing  cannot  well  be  mackerel, 
but  is  more  likely  to  be  the  skipjack  and  young  bonita 
—both  related  to  the  mackerel,  however.  Also,  the  ex- 
treme shyness  of  the  supposed  mackerel  toward  our 
hooks,  tallies  with  that  exasperating  characteristic  of  the 
skipjack,  as  noted  in  the  book  of  reference  that  we  dug  up. 
Our  little  library  is  of  unending  use  and  joy  to  us. 

It  being  too  wet  to  box  after  breakfast  this  morning,  Jack 
read  aloud  to  us  all, — Joseph  Conrad's  Youth,  a  masterpiece 
of  which  he  and  I  never  tire,  many  times  though  we  have 
read  it.  I,  at  least,  can  appreciate  it  much  better  than  I 
could  before  my  acquaintance  with  the  sea.  Books  and 
stories  about  the  sea  and  sea-going  bring  the  world  closer 
than  ever  about  me,  as  I  touch  more  intimately,  day  after 
day,  the  life  of  the  sea.  Captain  Warren  swears  by  Con- 
rad— a  sailor  vouching  for  the  capable  work  of  another 


58  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sailor.  And  speaking  of  the  captain  reminds  me  of  an  in- 
cident that  occurred  yesterday  which  made  a  great  impres- 
sion upon  me.  Our  little  arsenal  has  rusted  in  spite  of 
present  care-taking,  having  got  a  bad  start  during  'Gene's 
regime,  and  the  guns  jammed  yesterday,  after  the  first  few 
shots.  Jack  was  firing  his  Colt's  automatic  pistol,  and  it 
jammed.  The  empty  shell  would  not  eject,  nor  would  the 
loaded  magazine  come  out.  I  was  watching  his  efforts 
to  straighten  out  the  thing,  and  the  captain  could  see  I 
was  nervous  lest  there  be  an  explosion  in  Jack's  pre- 
cious hands,  although  I  declare  I  made  little  fuss.  So  the 
captain  begged  Jack  to  let  him  experiment,  adding  some- 
thing about  its  not  being  so  important  a  matter  if  anything 
happened  to  his  own  hands.  It  was  said  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course — the  captain  of  a  boat  taking  as  a  matter  of  course 
the  first  risks  in  all  things.  Jack  did  not  relinquish  the 
pistol,  and  I  was  immensely  relieved  when  the  magazine 
finally  yielded  and  came  out.  But  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
the  captain's  words  and  intention,  and  told  him  so  later  on. 
He  looked  pleased,  and  said  simply,  "Mr.  London's  hands 
are  worth  more  than  mine." 

Everybody  had  a  good  time  to-day,  for  there  was  plenty 
of  incident.  The  captain  hooked  our  first  bonita,  a  small 
specimen  about  fourteen  inches  long,  dark  changeable  blue 
on  top  and  all  delicate  mother-of-pearl  and  rose  under- 
neath. Being  a  dry  fish,  it  was  relegated  to  a  chowder 
for  supper.  Jack  did  not  finish  his  chapter  of  the  novel 
this  forenoon,  because,  soon  after  he  had  gone  below 
to  write,  after  inspecting  the  bonita,  we  spied  a  turtle  not 
far  off.  Captain  Warren  wore  ship  and  made  for  the  bow- 
sprit, dropped  down  upon  the  martingale  back-rope,  calling 
meanwhile  for  a  line  to  put  around  his  body,  while  he  should 
fasten  another  rope  around  the  turtle,  after  which  we  were 
to  haul  them  both  in.  He  did  that  once  before,  he  says, 
and  shows  a  scar  from  the  turtle's  bite.  But  he  did  not 
go  overboard  this  time,  for  we  drifted  to  the  left  of  the 
creature.  "Waking  from  sleep,  it  paddled  astern,  bobbing 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  59 

against  the  starboard  side  of  the  boat,  heavy  with  a  meal 
off  a  dozen  small-fry.  Over  the  stern  the  captain  hung 
on  to  the  granes  that  Herrmann  put  into  the  turtle's 
shell  just  back  of  its  head,  while  Jack  shot  his  automatic 
rifle  into  the  head.  Herrmann  and  Martin  were  frantically 
hunting  for  the  harpoon,  which  was  not  where  it  belonged, 
strange  to  say!  Only  one  barb  of  the  granes  had  caught 
in  the  shell,  and  the  captain  had  his  hands  full  to  keep  from 
losing  the  catch.  Herrmann  could  not  manage  to  stick  the 
harpoon  where  he  wanted  it,  so  he  put  a  rope  around  himself 
and  dropped  overboard,  passed  the  turtle  up  and  was  him- 
self hauled  in.  One  doesn't  feel  quite  happy  with  a  fellow 
voyager  overboard  in  these  waters,  I  can  tell  you.  One 
never  knows  when  a  shark  may  be  loafing  just  under  the 
keel,  dozing  lightly  and  alert  for  anything  that  looks  like  a 
meal.  Like  our  shark,  the  turtle  was  attended  by  pilot-fish. 

Handling  a  sea-turtle  is  a  thing  to  be  done  gingerly;  for 
besides  the  vicious  mouth  with  its  sharp  beak  inside  in  lieu 
of  teeth,  he  has  a  thick  strong  claw  on  each  flipper.  And 
when  a  turtle  is  dead,  he  isn  't  dead ;  you  can 't  trust  him — 
he  is  worse  than  a  shark.  A  story  is  told  of  a  turtle-shell 
hung  on  a  tree,  with  only  tail  and  head  left  attached.  A 
sailor  put  two  fingers  into  the  mouth,  and  the  "abysmal 
brute"  beak  closed  and  the  sailor  left  his  two  fingers  therein. 

The  dissection  of  this  creature,  which  is  "neither  flesh, 
nor  fish,  nor  fowl,"  but  resembles  all  three,  was  worth  see- 
ing. I  wonder  sometimes  how  I  can  watch  these  bloody 
operations.  But  I  want  to  see,  I  want  to  know;  and  these 
good  reasons  brace  me  up.  The  most  remarkable  thing  I 
saw  in  the  interior  of  this  turtle  was  the  canal  leading  to 
the  stomach,  which  canal  was  lined  with  yellow  spikes 
like  those  of  a  sea-anemone.  Nothing  that  is  swallowed  can 
return  to  the  light  unless  the  swallower  wills.  Captain 
Warren  is  drying  this  curiosity  in  the  sun,  and  says  it  is 
going  to  make  me  a  purse !  Our  turtle  measured  three  feet 
from  nose  to  rear  end  of  shell,  the  shell  itself  being  twenty- 
six  inches  long.  The  tail  alone  was  about  ten  inches. 


60  THE  LOG  OP  THE  SNAKK 

During  the  catching,  there  happened  a  thing  of  wonderful 
beauty.  Twice,  a  brilliantly  coloured  dolphin,  at  least  six 
feet  in  length,  leaped  high  and  shot  out  over  the  water, 
twisting  and  turning  in  the  air  before  falling  on  its  side 
with  a  loud  splash — just  having  a  good  time  enjoying  its 
life  and  strength.  There  were  many  dolphins  swimming 
close  around  us  at  the  time,  as  if  curious  about  the  turtle, 
and  we  saw  a  four-foot  albacore,  resembling  the  bonita,  only 
many  times  larger  than  any  bonita  we  have  come  across. 
Schools  of  tiny  skipjacks  swam  under  the  yacht,  and  a  small 
flying-fish  came  aboard.  Jack's  old  promises  are  being  abun- 
dantly surpassed. 

It  is  an  unending  happy  dream  of  youth  and  romance, 
this  idling  over  the  face  of  the  waters,  taking  anything  and 
everything  that  comes  along,  as  a  matter  of  course,  rain  or 
sunshine,  cloud  or  wind,  pleasure  and  danger;  and  it  is  all 
pleasure. 

Lat      6°  45'  North, 
Lon.  134°  West. 
Friday,  November  8,  1907. 

Captain  "Warren  is  trying  hard  not  to  be  short  and  glum 
in  this  near-calm,  in  which  the  only  fan  of  air  that  blows 
takes  us  more  to  the  south  than  we  care  to  go  as  yet — easting 
being  what  we  must  make  in  order  to  gain  the  Marquesas. 
But  Jack  and  I  are  most  cheerful,  with  our  work  and  read- 
ing, sparring,  playing  intense  games  of  cribbage  and  "ad- 
mirin'  how  the  world  is  made." 

The  turtle  has  been  served  up  in  various  forms,  each  bet- 
ter than  the  last — broiled,  fried,  soup-wise,  and  in  chowder ; 
and  the  end  is  not  yet. 

.  .  .  Last  night  a  slim  new  moon  came  out  above  heavy 
slate-blue  clouds  after  sunset,  and  under  the  clouds  glowed 
a  dull-gold  horizon,  while  the  sea  was  all  a  pale  purple 
flushed  with  rose.  If  my  sunsets  grow  tiresome,  forgive  me. 
They  are  so  lovely  that  it  seems  I  must  speak  of  them.  This 
morning  the  ocean  reminds  me  of  a  great  round  aquarium, 
the  rim  wrought  with  frosted  filagree  of  clouds — a  bowl  of 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  61 

blue  water  wherein  the  fish  leap  clear  as  if  trying  to  escape. 
But  the  bowl  has  a  cover  of  palest  blue,  and  there  is  no 
escape. 

Monday,  November  11,  1907. 

To-day  a  new  element  entered  into  our  romance — the  ele- 
ment of  raw,  red,  brutal  sailor-life  that  lands-  men  and 
-women  read  about  in  books.  And  it  has  left  me  sad  and 
sick  and  with  a  cruel  sense  of  disillusionment.  I  have  al- 
ready hinted  at  the  emotional  disposition  of  the  S nark's 
present  skipper;  but  I  did  not  dream  that  I  was  preparing 
my  readers  for  the  horrid  thing  that  happened  this  after- 
noon. It  is  like  a  nightmare ;  only,  when  I  look  at  the  ugly 
cut  on  poor  Wada's  blanched  face,  with  the  purple-bruised 
eyes  swollen  almost  shut,  I  know  again  the  sickening  reality 
of  this  new  page  in  the  Snark's  Log. 

The  captain's  moroseness  had  been  increasing  steadily  and 
probably  he  had  reached  the  stage  when  he  had  to  take  it 
out  on  somebody.  He  chose  the  smallest  man  on  board. 
Warren  has  a  cleft  in  the  top  of  his  skull  that  he  says  was 
dealt  him  by  a  crazy  ship's-cook;  but  after  to-day's  experi- 
ence I  don't  mind  hazarding  that  maybe  that  cook  was  not 
crazy. 

And  here's  what  occurred:  This  morning  at  breakfast 
the  captain  suddenly  remembered  a  box  of  honey  some  one 
had  given  him  at  Hilo.  He  also  remembered  having  sub- 
sequently seen  this  box  in  the  galley,  and  now  asked  Wada 
sharply  why  he  had  not  served  the  honey  with  our  hot- 
cakes  these  many  mornings.  Wada,  very  flustered  and  small 
in  the  voice,  answered  haltingly  that  he  had  never  seen  the 
box.  He  was  commanded  to  produce  it  immediately,  but 
failed  to  locate  it.  Then  the  captain,  half  rising  from  the 
table,  cried  in  a  voice  shaking  with  rage,  "You  find  that 
honey,  or  I'll  show  you  how  to  find  it!"  His  fury  was  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  occasion,  and  much  out  of  place  at 
table,  to  say  the  least. 

After  breakfast,   Wada,  with  drawn  face,  and  assisted 


62  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

by  a  silent  but  sympathetic  Nakata,  searched  through  locker 
after  locker,  in  galley  and  in  cabin;  but,  presumably 
through  the  very  forgetfulness  of  fear,  he  did  not  happen 
on  the  right  locker.  After  lunch,  which  passed  off  rather 
constrainedly  under  the  lowering  looks  of  the  captain,  there 
was  a  general  air  of  uncomfortable  expectancy  aboard  ship. 
In  the  afternoon,  while  Jack  was  steering  and  reading  aloud 
to  me  in  the  cockpit,  there  came  through  the  galley  decklight 
the  sound  of  a  one-sided  conversation  in  the  trembling,  un- 
controlled tones  of  Captain  Warren.  Nakata  was  hovering 
on  deck  with  the  longest  face  we  had  ever  seen  on  him.  Few 
words  reached  us ;  but  there  followed  a  thudding  pause  that 
turned  me  faint.  Then  the  captain  came  on  deck,  and  his 
hands  were  bloody — I  know  I  can  never  look  at  them  again 
without  thinking  of  it ;  and  he  was  followed  by  a  shrunken, 
blinded  little  brown  man  whose  entire  face  was  a  red 
smudge.  I  did  not  look  again,  for  I  felt  somehow  that  along 
with  the  pain  Wada  was  suffering,  there  was  pride  and  a 
shrinking  from  observation.  So  I  looked  at  Jack  instead, 
and  something  in  his  eyes  told  me  the  happening  would 
never  be  repeated. 

The  captain  came  aft  with  his  brutal  hands;  and  would 
you  believe  it? — he  had  so  relieved  himself  that  he  was  now 
all  apology  for  making  a  scene,  and  further,  his  voice  broke 
sympathetically  over  the  "punishment"  he  had  been  obliged 
to  give  Wada.  The  cook  had  ordered  him  out  of  the  galley, 
and  of  course  it  was  a  captain's  right  to  go  anywhere  he 
pleased  aboard  his  command. 

Martin  had  heard  and  seen  everything  through  the  glass 
window  in  the  wall  between  galley  and  engine-room.  The 
captain,  Martin  told  us  afterward,  who  is  twice  as  large  as 
Wada,  had  blocked  the  galley  door  with  his  person,  and 
demanded  "that  honey."  Wada,  scared  out  of  his  wits, 
said  it  was  not  on  the  boat.  The  captain  started  to  enter, 
threateningly,  and  Wada,  in  the  last  extremity  of  terror, 
said,  "Don't  you  come  in  my  galley."  Which  is  where  he 
made  his  big  mistake,  for  it  was  just  what  Warren  had 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  63 

tried  to  frighten  him  into,  so  he  would  have  an  excuse  to  take 
the  boy  by  the  throat  with  one  hand  and  smash  in  with  the 
other.  There  was  no  escape  in  the  confined  space,  with  the 
stove  behind. 

Wada  was  stupid,  granted — for  the  honey  was  found  later 
— but  he  was  terrified,  and  not  intentionally  mutinous  or 
impudent;  and  his  punishment  was  entirely  disproportion- 
ate to  his  offence.  This  is  not  a  merchant  ship  nor  a  tramp 
steamer;  it  is  a  pleasure-boat,  and  such  extremes  are  un- 
called for. 

Poor  little  Wada!  That  evening  I  was  alone  in  the  life- 
boat, when  he  crept  on  deck.  I  called  him  to  me  and  asked 
him  if  the  cut  on  his  forehead  was  painful.  He  answered 
in  a  dead,  level  voice  that  it  was  not,  but  that  his  throat 
ached.  I  noticed  that  he  was  hoarse.  He  seemed  to  grieve 
most  over  the  possibility  of  a  scar,  for  he  said  he  had  never 
been  in  trouble  like  this  before.  He  thought  a  scar  would 
be  a  sort  of  disgrace. 

"Cap'n  big  man — just  like  hit  little  baby  when  he  hit 
me,"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 

Lat.      8°  3(X  North, 
Lon.  131°  West. 
Wednesday,  November  13,  1907. 

I  am  sitting  on  a  new  corner  seat  in  the  cockpit,  at  seven 
bells  in  the  evening ;  Jack,  Captain  Warren  and  Martin,  are 
perspiring  over  a  game  of  poker  in  the  cabin ;  Herrmann  is 
on  the  rudder-box  holding  the  boat  to  her  course,  southeast 
one-half  south,  in  a  fair  wind  that  has  been  blowing  since 
three  o'clock,  to  our  delight.  Upon  my  assurance  that  it 
will  not  bother  me  in  the  least,  Herrmann  is  singing  "The 
Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  although  I  have  discovered  that  the 
tale  he  carries  to  our  familiar  air  is  not  the  one  we  know, 
being  a  recital  of  a  Dutch  Maud  Muller  who  scorned  the 
rich  suitor,  preferring  her  poor  but  honest  yokel. 

To  the  northeast,  in  an  otherwise  clear  and  moonlit  sky, 
a  low  black  thunder-cloud  is  spitting  intermittent  flashes  of 


64  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

steely  lightning  that  make  my  electric  light  yellow  by  con- 
trast. It  is  too  lovely  a  night  for  me  to  be  stuck  in  an  ar- 
tificially lighted  corner ;  but  this  has  already  been  a  day  full 
of  neglected  work,  and  if  I  wait  too  long  to  write  what  I 
see,  the  freshness  and  colour  will  go  out — like  the  life  and 
colour  that  went  out  of  a  dying  dolphin  Herrmann  landed 
yesterday.  I  was  sleeping  late,  and  Jack  tiptoed  in  at 
8:30,  not  wanting  me  to  miss  this  first  dolphin  caught 
in  daylight.  It  took  me  just  about  two  minutes  to  get  on 
deck,  and  even  then  the  living  peacock-blue  was  gone,  all 
but  speckles  of  it  dotting  an  iridescent  green.  This  in  turn 
shaded  out  of  a  dark  blue  line  underneath,  which  soon  faded 
to  glossy  white.  Most  of  the  dolphins  we  see  in  the  water 
are  of  all  shades  of  bright  blue,  passing  into  emerald  green ; 
and  to-day,  through  some  light  and  shade  effect,  they  ap- 
peared to  be  broadly  striped  with  black  and  green  and  blue. 
They  are  the  chameleons  of  the  deep — except  that  their 
colours  are  not  protective;  they  shame  everything  else  in 
air  and  sea. 

This  fish  measured  over  three  feet.  Although  we  have 
seen  them  twice  this  length,  the  captain  says  this  three-footer 
is  the  largest  he  ever  caught.  As  with  the  sunsets,  I  must 
be  pardoned  for  recurring  to  the  dolphin,  so  beautiful  a 
thing  he  is.  We  have  been  surrrounded  by  enormous  ones 
these  days  of  calm.  Imagine  a  vision  of  luminous  azure  deep 
down  in  transparent  dark  sapphire  water — why,  we  drop 
everything  to  watch.  The  turtle  shell,  towed  close  astern, 
brings  various  sorts  of  inquisitive  fish  around  us  when  the 
water  is  calm. 

To-day  Jack  and  the  captain  classified  our  charts — some 
already  used,  some  unnecessary  ones,  to  be  returned  to  Cali- 
fornia, and  the  ones  for  the  future  put  into  the  order  in 
which  we  now  expect  to  need  them.  After  these  days  of 
turning  around  and  around  in  calms,  or  fighting  head  winds 
and  currents  and  getting  nowhere,  we  are  fired  with  fresh 
ambition  to  follow  the  islands  shown  by  the  charts. 

Big  drops  of  warm  rain  are  blobbing  all  over  the  page  as 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  65 

I  write;  but  they  cannot  put  out  my  covered  light,  so  I 
don't  mind  them. 

Poor  Martin  has  been  wrestling  with  defective  plumb- 
ing in  the  bath-room ;  also  with  certain  faults  in  the  engine- 
room  electrical  apparatus.  His  opinions  as  to  the  integrity 
of  the  people  dealing  in  ship  chandlery  are  undergoing  a 
transformation,  now  that  he  must  keep  in  order  these  faulty 
things.  '  *  The  darn  things  were  only  made  to  play  with, ' '  he 
complained,  looking  ruefully  at  an  inefficient  pump-handle 
that  had  been  defying  all  efforts  to  make  it  do  its  work, 
and  that  had  finally  broken  short  off. 

Lat.      8°  North, 
Lon.  129°  42'  West. 
Thursday,  November  14,  1907. 

Not  much  sleep  these  hot  nights,  for  the  "  juice "  that 
runs  the  cooling  fans  gave  out  a  few  nights  ago.  About 
4:30  this  morning  the  wind  freshened  to  a  strong  squall 
that  called  for  all  hands  on  deck  to  take  in  flying- jib 
and  mizzen.  How  it  does  pour  in  these  squalls!  The  big 
stinging  drops  seem  to  shoot  from  the  clouds  rather  than 
fall,  with  a  drive  that  sends  them  through  oilskin.  But  it  is 
such  cleansing  rain.  The  ropes  grow  whiter  after  each 
deluging ;  and  I  love  to  feel  the  water  run  off  my  slicker  and 
drench  my  bare  feet. 

It  is  so  cheering  to  hear  the  brave  bright  voices  of  the 
men  through  rain  and  dark,  reassuring  us  as  to  their  safety. 
One  could  go  overboard  so  easily  at  night  in  a  big  sea  and 
not  be  missed  for  a  time;  and  even  if  he  were  missed  im- 
mediately, how  pick  him  up  in  the  gloom  and  noise  and 
confusion  ? 

I  am  more  or  less  painfully  aware  of  the  many  places 
aboard  a  small  craft  upon  which  one  can  "bark"  his 
anatomy.  I  would  better  say  "her"  anatomy,  since  I  have 
a  more  than  ordinarily  brilliant  faculty  for  decorating  my- 
self with  bruises  that  vie  with  the  lunar  rainbow  in 
smothered  tones  of  violet  and  orange.  I  am  particularly 


66  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

conscious  of  such  abrasions  after  a  rough  night.  I  recoil 
in  sleep  from  a  wicked  encounter  of  my  temple  with  a  sharp- 
cornered  pigeon-hole  on  a  locker-door  by  my  head,  only  to 
receive  the  full  weight  of  my  descending  body  on  the  flat- 
tened end  of  my  poor  sun-tender  nose  against  the  bunk- 
rail,  as  I  turn,  assisted  by  a  violent  roll  of  the  boat,  for  con- 
solation to  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  Oh,  it  is  not  at  all 
funny — until  I  come  to  tell  about  it,  when  I  have  to  laugh 
even  if  it  hurts  to  laugh.  I  am  minded  of  the  solicitous  old 
sea-dog  who  warned  Jack  by  letter  that  it  was  not  safe  to 
take  a  woman  outside  the  Golden  Gate  in  a  boat  of  the 
Snark's  size;  that  we  would  be  bruised  over  our  "entire 
persons,  unless  the  boat  be  padded,  which  is  not  usual." 
I'll  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  am  pretty 
much  bruised  over  my  ' l  entire  person, ' '  but  that  I  am  grow- 
ing hardened  both  in  spirit  and  muscle.  Every  one  aboard 
knows  when  I  hurt  myself;  but  I  really  think  I  make  less 
outcry  than  of  yore.  I  would  be  willing  to  wager  a  good 
round  sum  that  more  than  one  reader  of  my  tale  of  bumps 
and  humps  will  say  that  my  husband  is  a  brute  to  risk  me 
on  such  a  voyage — unless  he  wants  to  lose  me.  But  to  all 
such  I  make  reply  that  they  should  just  see  me  if  he  tried 
to  leave  me  behind.  However,  I  think  I  must  have  been 
inspired  when  I  suggested,  in  America,  that  we  take  the 
trip  before  we  were  any  older ! 

No  woman  but  an  idiot  would  embark  on  a  round-world 
voyage  in  our  fashion  without  sundry  flutters  and  misgiv- 
ings. I  did  not  worry  very  much  about  trouble  or  danger; 
but  at  first  I  could  not  help  being  a  little  nervous  sometimes 
in  the  sizable  seas  through  which  the  little  Snark  would 
thread  her  way  with  that  impudent  adventuring  nose  of  hers. 
But  now,  except  when  shocked  awake  from  a  dead  sleep,  I 
take  the  pawing  and  clawing,  lurching  and  bounding  over 
the  bucking  seas,  quite  as  part  of  the  day's  work.  This  is 
not  to  minimise  the  possibility  of  the  awful  things  that  could 
happen  to  us  and  may  yet  happen  to  us,  for  the  sea  is  a 
cruel,  unlovable  monster  of  caprice  and  might ;  but  now  my 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  67 

accustomed  nerves  are  beginning  to  dread  nothing  less  than 
the  worst. 

We  are  all  becoming  more  and  more  a  part  of  the  boat. 
We  take  less  conscious  care  of  ourselves  near  the  rail — but 
we  are  actually  more  cautious  than  ever,  in  a  finer  and  more 
intelligent,  if  more  subconscious  way. 

.  .  .  Think  of  the  mails  that  must  be  waiting  for  us  at 
Papeete,  Tahiti.  It  will  be  six  weeks  next  Monday  since 
we  sailed  from  Hilo ;  and  it  struck  me  with  a  pang  the  other 
day,  that  before  long,  dear  ones  at  home  may  be  saddening 
their  days  with  apprehensions  for  our  fate — and  life  is  so 
short,  and  terrors  of  this  kind  shorten  it,  if  life  be  measured 
by  heartbeats  of  happiness.  It  is  bad  enough  for  people  to 
think  of  us  out  in  this  cockle-shell,  without  the  agony  being 
piled  up  by  "  overdue "  press  reports.  Our  obituaries  may 
even  now  be  in  preparation  in  newspaper  offices  where  news 
is  scarce! 

Jack  says  this  is  probably  the  longest  single  stretch  we 
shall  ever  have.  Where  we  should  be  logging  one  hundred 
miles  a  day  at  the  least,  we  are  only  doing  a  few.  Take 
yesterday:  we  made  thirty  knots  on  our  course,  and  I  don't 
know  how  many  off  our  course ;  and  this  morning  after  the 
squall,  which  kept  us  on  the  course,  the  wind  broke  off  and 
we  are  now  fighting  slowly  northeast  with  plunge  and 
splurge,  in  a  big  short  sea,  making  very  little  headway.  It 
is  a  comfortless  movement,  too.  We  are  past  getting  sea- 
sick now;  but  I  for  one  am  not  quite  at  rest  in  the  region 
of  my  solar  plexus. 

After  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  tropic  cockroach, 
the  centipede,  and  other  unsympathetic  co-dwellers  in  this 
vale  of  tears,  a  woman's  heartfelt  desire  is  to  keep  them 
from  possessing  the  household.  My  household  is  a  boat, 
with  all  sorts  of  attractive  nooks  and  damp  lockers  and  dark 
corners  for  insect  or  reptile.  No  centipedes  have  shown  up ; 
plenty  of  time  yet  for  them  to  come  aboard  with  island 
fruits.  But  after  several  days'  vague  curiosity  about  cer- 
tain black  husks  in  the  graham  bread,  it  was  discovered  that 


68  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  flour  was  alive  with  weevils  and  black  bugs.  Well, 
there's  no  use  being  too  squeamish;  but  Jack,  horrid  thing! 
said  he  had  noticed  a  distinct  change  for  the  better  in  his 
physical  well-being,  as  if,  forsooth,  he  had  been  living  on 
a  fresh-meat  diet ! — Ugh !  the  flour  was  carefully  sifted  and 
sunned  on  the  skylight  to-day — don't  think  for  a  moment 
that  we  wasted  it  overboard.  "We  are  too  far  from  land  to 
do  anything  so  unwise. 

It  is  an  even  chance,  now,  which  port  we  fetch  first, 
Nuka-Hiva  in  the  Marquesas,  or  Papeete  in  Tahiti.  When 
the  wind  is  contrary,  which,  when  there  is  any  wind  at  all, 
is  usually  the  case,  there  is  talk  of  our  being  unable  to  make 
the  required  slant  to  the  Marquesas,  the  chance  being  that 
we  shall  be  lucky  if  we  can  lay  a  course  that  will  not  miss 
Tahiti.  I  rather  wish  it  would  be  Tahiti  first,  in  order  that 
we  might  pick  up  our  mail  sooner;  then,  granting  a  fair 
wind  east,  to  run  back  to  the  Marquesas,  taking  in  Tahiti 
again  and  later  mails  on  our  westward  way.  There  is  cer- 
tainly nothing  cut-and-dried  in  our  calendar — we  do  not 
even  know  where  we  are  bound ! 

But  we  11  let  go  our  anchor  in  some  lovely  haven  this  side 
of  the  "Port  of  Missing  Men." 

Sometimes  I  think  of  the  women  of  my  New  England  fam- 
ily, scattered  from  their  home-Maine  throughout  the  South, 
in  New  York,  and  Philadelphia,  and  Boston,  who  in  their 
time  have  gone  abroad  in  ships  with  their  master-mariner 
husbands,  travelling  for  years,  until  some  swift  disaster 
widowed  them,  stranded  and  desolate.  In  the  town  of 
Searsport,  Maine,  where  some  years  ago  I  visited  a  beautiful 
white-haired  cousin  with  the  look  of  loss  in  her  eyes — in 
Searsport  there  are  some  eight  hundred  inhabitants,  the 
majority  of  whom  are  widows  of  sea  captains.  And  it  seems 
strange  that  I,  born  and  reared  in  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  Union,  should  be  out  adventuring  to  strange  lands  my- 
self with  a  man  who  loves  to  sail  the  sea.  How  much  closer 
I  shall  ever  be  to  those  women  of  my  father's  family. 

.  .  .  The  other  morning,  lying  late,  I  heard  the  captain 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  69 

say  he  had  never  seen  so  many  fish  in  his  life.  During  the 
day  I  learned  what  he  meant.  They  were  mostly  bonitas, 
cresting  the  waves  with  their  flashing  silver  bodies,  the 
water  boiling  and  seething  with  them  as  they  darted  and 
leaped — countless  thousands  of  them. 

.  .  .  Nakata  is  learning  much  English ;  but  once  in  a  while 
he  shows  preferences  for  words  of  his  own  coining  above 
those  taught  him.  For  example,  yesterday  I  told  him  to 
clean  the  blades  of  my  electric  fan,  which  pick  up  all  sorts  of 
fluff  out  of  the  atmosphere.  The  small  heathen  (who  is  a 
Christian,  by  the  way  I)  told  Herrmann  that  he  was  going  be- 
low to  clean  the  mind! 

Lat.      7°  52'  North, 
Lon.  126°  36'  West. 
Monday,  November  18,  1907. 

I  gave  up  trying  to  sleep  below  without  the  electric  fan, 
and  have  spent  my  third  night  on  deck,  forward,  under  the 
bow  of  the  life-boat.  Sailing  softly  along  before  light  airs, 
the  nights  have  been  lovely,  moonlit,  with  no  squalls. 

Herrmann  cannot  be  brought  to  see  that  it  is  quite  the 
right  thing  for  a  woman  to  sleep  on  a  hard  deck  with  no 
mattress ;  but  I  am  entirely  satisfied  with  my  yielding  spread 
of  many-folded,  clean  canvas,  a  duck  coverlet  and  a  comfort- 
able pillow;  and  if  my  feet  grow  chilly,  there's  a  poncho  to 
pull  over.  It  is  a  novel  picnic  to  turn  in  under  the  moon, 
face  and  body  softly  swept  by  the  palpable,  flowing  wind — 
air  that  one  drinks  rather  than  breathes.  And  when  I 
rouse  and  lift  my  head  to  look  in  the  waking  eye  of  dawn, 
I  truly  wonder  where  I  am,  and  glance  momentarily  into 
the  airy  rigging  above  with  a  sense  of  lacking  weight  and 
substance,  of  being  part  and  parcel  of  myth  and  mystery. 
The  face  of  morning  is  very  beautiful,  bending  over  the 
flushing  sea. — Think  of  our  little  white  boat,  floating  lone- 
liest of  all  boats,  in  this  desert  of  celestial  colour.  It  is 
adventure,  pure  and  simple;  it  is  enrichment  of  one's  most 
precious  store  of  imagination.  .  .  .  We  stood  last  night 


70  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

after  supper,  Jack  and  I,  leaning  over  the  launch  and  gazing 
spellbound  at  a  sunset  of  forms  and  hues  so  grotesque  and 
crude,  contrasts  of  rawness  and  garishness  so  rude,  that  our 
senses  were  shocked.  The  simplest  pigments  were  used  to 
limn  the  picture,  greens  and  blues  and  pinks ;  and  from  the 
basic  flaunting  gold  there  shout  out  great  spreading  rays 
of  rose  and  blue.  A  cloud-genii,  inky  black,  developed 
in  the  centre,  and  as  the  colours  deepened  around,  long 
cloud-capes  on  the  horizon  sent  up  strange  forms  like  in- 
sane, toppling  mountains.  It  was  exciting,  tonic,  jarring 
blood  and  brain  like  an  electric  bath  or  a  burst  of  cannonad- 
ing or  anything  unusual  and  shocking.  Something  made  me 
face  to  the  east  as  if  to  seek  peace  for  the  eye.  The  op- 
posing vision  was  untouched  by  the  spirit  of  the  first.  A 
cold  silver  moon  hung  in  a  sky  of  dove,  over  a  sea  of  silver- 
grey,  all  softly  luminous  but  as  wanting  in  colour  as  grey 
can  ever  be.  To  change  to  this  calm  desolation  of  grey  and 
silver  was  as  if  to  turn  from  a  gaud-tricked,  painted  woman 
to  see  a  grey  nun  standing. 

November  19,  1907. 

Whenever  there  is  any  good  fishing  over  our  rail  a  sort  of 
tacit  holiday  obtains,  affecting  all  hands  but  the  cook.  Yet 
our  brown  chef  revels  in  the  sort  of  work  entailed  upon 
him  by  our  catch.  Three  hundred  pounds  of  sea-meat  hap- 
pened on  our  deck  the  other  day.  "Fish  market,"  Nakata 
unctuously  commented;  while  Wada,  squatting  on  his  bare 
heels,  dexterously  carved  a  seven-foot  shark,  sharpening  the 
knife  on  its  hide  now  and  again.  In  addition  to  the  shark 
there  were  some  dolphins  varying  from  three  to  four  feet  in 
length,  and  several  bonitas  larger  than  any  we  had  yet  seen. 

The  sport  began  with  Martin  hooking  his  first  fish — a  ten- 
pound  bonita  that  put  up  a  game  fight  and  came  aboard 
glowing  with  angry  colours  as  bizarre  as  our  sunsets — a 
painted  fish  if  there  ever  was  one.  Kaining  and  blowing 
though  it  was,  Martin  hied  him  to  the  end  of  the  bowsprit 
and  promptly  caught  a  five-pounder  of  the  same  species, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  H 

that  looked  for  all  the  world  like  an  elongated  soap-bubble, 
blown  from  Paradise,  if  Paradise  can  fling  off  anything  so 
exquisite.  Martin  hooked  one  smaller  bonita,  which  exactly 
fitted  Wada's  eye  for  a  baked  stuffed  fish. 

Jack  knocked  off  work  for  a  while  and  came  up  to  try  his 
luck,  but  his  success  was  reserved  for  larger  game.  The 
bonitas  shot  along  near  the  top  of  the  water,  straight  and 
true  and  brightly  gleaming,  like  steel  shuttles  weaving  a 
prodigious  fabric  of  grey  and  white.  Jack  had  no  sooner 
returned  to  his  work  again,  when  '  *  Shark ! ' '  was  the  shout  on 
deck,  and  I  reached  the  stern  in  time  to  see  the  tiger  of  the 
sea  with  his  yellow  cat-eyes  turn  leisurely  on  his  side  and 
swallow  bait  and  hook,  the  captain  yelling  meanwhile  for 
Jack  to  come  and  have  the  fun  of  pulling  it  in.  But  Jack 
was  not  going  to  spoil  a  sentence  for  any  second  shark,  and 
came  up  a  moment  later  to  empty  his  shot-gun  into  the 
head  of  the  furiously  struggling  monster.  It  was  not  so 
game  as  our  first  shark,  giving  up  both  the  conscious  and 
the  unconscious  fight  much  sooner. 

Jack  offset  all  his  hitherto  unsuccessful  sport  when  the 
dolphins  began  to  bite  that  same  afternoon.  For  several 
days  the  birds  that  hunt  flying-fish  had  been  scarce,  and  we 
had  noticed  an  absence  of  the  latter.  For  this  or  some  other 
reason  the  dolphins  were  hungry,  and  we  hung  over  the  rail 
and  watched  the  orgy  of  colour  they  made  in  the  calm  blue 
underneath  as  they  would  sniff  at  the  bait  several  times, 
suspiciously,  and  finally,  reassured,  catch  it  up  next  time 
they  shot  by.  Every  one  but  Nakata  and  I  pulled  in  a  dol- 
phin. I  didn't  try,  and  Nakata  failed.  Jack  caught  two, 
and  Martin  two,  and  Jack's  larger  one  turned  out  to  be  an 
inch  longer  than  any  other,  measuring  four  feet  seven  inches, 
and  weighing  twenty-six  pounds.  He  played  it  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  with  rod  and  reel,  and  a  small  hook 
baited  with  flying  fish.  It  passed  through  indigo  and  tur- 
quoise to  the  most  brilliant  luminous  gaslight-green,  and, 
when  finally  landed  with  the  help  of  the  granes,  faded  into 
fairest  gold  all  over,  then  quickly  spotted  with  electric-blue. 


72  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Some  dolphins  came  aboard  a  hard,  bright  white,  immedi- 
ately changing  to  other  tints ;  others  arrived  in  pale  blue,  or 
pale  green,  or  both,  and  no  two  went  through  the  same  suc- 
cession of  colours.  They  are  unbelievably  beautiful. 

Since  this  big  catch,  different  ways  of  putting  fish  on  the 
table  have  kept  Wada's  ingenuity  busy.  They  have  been 
baked  and  stuffed,  with  tomato  dressing;  boiled;  broiled 
with  a  rasher  of  bacon;  have  made  excellent  chowder;  and 
this  morning  dolphin  fritters  made  their  bow,  nicely  light 
and  done  in  olive  oil.  And  the  roe  is  a  great  delicacy. 
Wada  is  beginning  to  look  like  himself  again,  but  for  a 
nasty  healing  scar  between  the  eyes.  The  captain  keeps  a 
wary  eye  on  the  cook,  as  if  fearing  treachery;  but  Wada 
goes  his  way  unconcernedly. 

One  big  dolphin  swallowed  four  expensive  hooks  from  off 
a  white  wooden  lure  in  the  form  of  a  fish,  but  gulped  another 
baited  hook  presently,  and  when  Wada  came  to  clean  the 
fish  he  discovered  the  lost  hooks. 

We  do  not  want  for  incident  these  days.  What  of  the 
weather,  the  sunrises  and  sunsets,  the  extreme  loveliness  of 
the  reflecting  liquid  expanse  round  about,  the  squalls,  calms, 
winds  fair  and  foul,  there  is  endless  novelty;  but  ft  is  life- 
incident,  or  the  scarcity  of  it,  that  pitches  excitement  high 
when  anything  new  in  this  line  turns  up.  We  are  all  like 
children  at  a  circus  parade.  Herrmann,  with  the  murder- 
ous granes  poised  for  a  cast  at  dolphin  or  turtle,  his  face 
alive  with  earnest  attention,  is  a  model  for  a  sculptor  of 
old-country  types — to  be  wrought  in  bronze;  the  captain, 
breathless  and  with  quivering  voice,  hanging  to  a  line  around 
a  shark,  the  Japanese  emitting  little  barbaric  squeals  and 
cries  of  delight,  Jack  talking  fast,  with  his  eyes  shining,  and 
I  tumbling  over  the  main-sheet  to  a  place  of  vantage — oh, 
I  can  assure  everybody  that  it  is  exhilarating!  One  day 
lately  we  sighted  a  small  white  sea-porcupine  about  eight 
inches  long,  bobbing  calmly  on  the  long  swell,  head  and  tail 
extended,  like  those  of  a  turtle.  Its  arched  white  back  glis- 
tened with  wicked  spikes.  We  tacked  and  tacked  in  order 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  73 

to  pick  it  up,  straining  our  eyes  to  keep  track  of  it ;  but  the 
wind  was  too  light,  and  we  failed.  We  saw  another  turtle 
last  night,  but  missed  it.  These  turtles  are  unusually  far 
from  land,  I  have  learned. 

To  offset  our  very  unstimulating  record  for  speed  on  this 
traverse,  we  contemplate  the  fact  that,  so  far  as  we  know,  no 
other  yacht  has  ever  travelled  the  course  at  all. 

Jack  has  resumed  his  navigation  again  in  earnest ;  and  on 
the  15th,  Friday  last,  took  his  first  chronometer  sight  on  this 
cruise.  Herrmann  is  much  impressed,  and  wonders  why 
we  employ  a  captain! 

We  have  taken  up  Saleeby  's  fascinating  work,  The  Cycle  of 
Life,  which  Jack  found  he  could  not  be  selfish  enough  to 
read  by  himself ;  so,  several  times  a  day,  while  I  stitch  away 
on  summer  lingerie,  or  embroider,  he  reads  aloud  to  me  of 
the  sufficient  wonder  of  the  ascertained  fact  and  the  rela- 
tivity of  all  knowledge,  worked  out  in  beautiful  clear 
style  in  chapters  under  such  headings  as  "  Swimming, " 
11  Cricket, "  "The  Living  Cell,"  "Song,"  "Fratricide," 
"The  Destiny  of  the  Horse,"  "The  Green  Leaf,"  "Atoms 
and  Evolution" — all  related  in  a  way  that  makes  one  glow 
with  enthusiasm  over  the  universe  that  is  and  the  particular 
brain-cells  of  the  man  who  can  present  the  conclusions  of 
science  in  such  enchanting  form. 

.  .  .  Our  course  staggers  tipsily  over  the  chart,  but  we 
are  going  to  get  in  cahoots  with  the  southeast  trades 
some  day,  and  now,  having  accomplished  the  requisite  east- 
ing, we  are  sure  of  the  Marquesas  if  we  can  be  sure  of  any- 
thing in  this  capricious  ocean.  As  the  Snark  buckles  down 
each  day  to  her  work,  we  discuss  our  future  plans  for  that 
region  indefinitely  termed  the  South  Seas,  and  have  about 
made  up  our  minds  to  try  for  the  Paumotus,  of  "infamous 
reputation"  for  danger,  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says — 
the  Dangerous  Archipelago  of  old-time  navigators. 

Jack  has  spent  to-day 's  holiday  in  overhauling  all  his  fish- 
ing-tackle— coils  of  line,  coarse  and  fine,  shining  reels  of 
different  makes  and  sizes,  hooks  of  roughly  murderous  or  of 


74  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNABK 

finely  cruel  aspect,  elegant  rods  of  varying  degrees  of  slen- 
derness  and  polish,  dainty  nets  of  white  or  yellow;  and  the 
spoons  of  steel  and  mother-of-pearl  and  gay  pigments  are 
fit  to  make  an  angler's  fingers  twitch.  One  lure  represents 
a  curving  silver  minnow,  cunningly  armed  with  wicked 
hooks. 

After  boxing  this  morning  we  had  to  borrow  a  pai-l 
from  the  galley  for  our  bucketing,  for  on  Saturday  Martin, 
open-mouthed  over  the  stern  while  the  captain  held  the 
shark,  deliberately  let  go  the  canvas  pail  he  happened  to  be 
holding;  and  later  in  the  day,  hauling  up  a  galvanized  iron 
pail  full  of  water,  the  rope  parted  and  a  second  container 
was  lost.  Herrmann  is  now  manufacturing  a  new  canvas 
bucket,  having  finished  my  windsail,  which  even  as  I  write 
is  conveying  cool  draughts  of  air  down  through  an  open 
deck-light. 

Lat       6°  45'  North, 
Lon.  125°  36'  West. 
Monday,  November  25,  1907. 

There  is  something  wholly  exasperating  about  the  weather 
this  morning;  and  as  it  was  the  same  all  of  yesterday  and 
last  night,  our  nerves  are  a  bit  on  edge.  The  wind  blows 
briskly  from  the  wrong  direction,  sending  us  east  by  north, 
when  we  want  to  go  southeast ;  and  we  are  bucking  the  head- 
sea  that  has  certainly  been  no  novelty  on  this  long  passage — 
forty-nine  days  to-day.  You  cannot  move  without  bump- 
ing something,  in  this  contrary  motion;  and  when  a  big 
swift  roll  comes,  things  slide  and  fall  in  all  directions.  Just 
now,  among  a  shower  of  articles  set  loose  by  a  vicious  surge 
of  the  yacht,  one  book  struck  the  floor  with  such  force  that 
it  slid  right  out  of  its  binding,  and  it  was  not  flimsily-bound 
either.  My  pocket-diary  took  a  trip  across  the  deck,  poised 
in  the  very  teeth  of  the  scupper,  and  the  instant  after  Jack 
rescued  it  a  wave  washed  in  where  it  had  been.  There  has 
been  little  sunshine  for  several  days,  and,  on  account  of 
wet  weather,  less  opportunity  for  open  decklights;  so  our 
staterooms  and  lockers  have  a  disagreeable  odour  of  stale- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  75 

ness  and  mouldiness.  The  air  is  sultry,  and  I  had  a  surpris- 
ing attack  of  prickly  heat  this  morning.  This  is  the  first 
day  I  have  felt  as  if  I  would  rather  sight  land  than  not; 
then  I  appreciate  that  if  it  were  not  for  my  work  with  which 
I  never  catch  up,  and  my  desire  to  make  the  most  of  my  un- 
interrupted time,  I  might  be  tainted  with  Captain  Warren 's 
impatience.  Altogether,  I  feel  very  much  like  breaking  my 
cheer  and  being  real  cross  for  a  spell !  But  what 's  the  use  ? 
I  know,  when  I  come  right  down  to  " brass  tacks,"  as  Jack 
says,  that  I  would  rather  be  here,  on  this  buffeted  boat,  in 
this  up-ending  head-sea,  than  in  lots  of  other  states  I  can 
think  of — say  on  an  abused  and  stumbling  horse,  riding  over 
a  bad  road,  in  another  person's  ill-adjusted  saddle,  under  a 
hot  sun;  or,  to  come  nearer  home,  I'd  rather  be  in  present 
circumstances  than  in  those  of  last  Wednesday,  the  20th, 
when  we  found  ourselves  short  of  water,  with  no  prospect 
of  rain  and  with  only  twenty  days'  rations  left.  But  the 
unpleasantness  of  that  prospect,  which  I  am  using  to  offset 
to-day's  irk,  was  mitigated  somewhat  by  the  interesting 
touch  of  danger.  A  taste  of  sea-peril  of  this  kind  has  a 
thrill  in  it — something  new  to  go  through  and  to  think  of 
afterwards,  provided,  of  course,  that  there  be  any  after- 
wards. There  was  an  element  of  romance,  somewhat 
dimmed  by  humour,  in  the  spectacle  of  the  galley-pump, 
shackled  with  steel  handcuffs  against  the  possibility  of  the 
cook  drawing  more  than  his  allotment  of  water  for  cooking 
purposes.  We  experienced  a  hitherto  unknown  sense  of 
miserly  vigilance  over  our  quart-bottles  filled  to  last  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  hung  up  in  shady  places. 

The  threatened  water-famine  affected  us  according  to  our 
several  natures.  Martin  was  seized  with  an  aggravated 
thirst  and  consumed  his  quart  in  the  forenoon.  To  bring 
home  to  him  the  consequences  of  his  unbridled  license,  we 
compared  our  plenty  with  his  want  by  trickling  our  own  sup- 
ply loudly  and  ostentatiously  from  varying  heights  into 
our  glasses.  As  for  Jack,  he  drank  moderately,  and  had  a 
little  of  his  allowance  left  the  following  morning.  I  was 


76  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

not  driven  into  excess  by  imaginings  of  a  future  parched 
throat;  indeed,  I  was  less  thirsty  than  usual — although  I 
am  not  prepared  to  say  how  much  of  my  lack  of  desire  was 
affected  by  the  discovery  that  there  was  a  flavour  of  kero- 
sene in  my  bottle.  At  night,  however,  Jack  let  me  have  some 
of  his  hoarded  store  in  exchange  for  some  of  mine  for  his 
morning  shave.  Naturally,  no  provision  for  washing  en- 
tered into  the  regime,  each  scheming  the  disposal  of  his 
single  quart  as  he  saw  fit.  I  tried  ammonia  in  salt  water, 
and  it  was  an  improvement  over  salt  water  plain ;  but  I  did 
not  put  any  of  this  mixture  on  my  face.  I  cleansed  that 
mirror  of  my  soul  with  cold  cream,  and  judged  my  coun- 
tenance to  be  the  cleanest  of  the  ship's  company,  as  I  saw 
no  one  else  making  any  sort  of  shift  to  wash. 

The  cook  was  given  seven  quarts  of  water  for  general 
use  in  cooking  only,  and  employed  this  so  discreetly  as  to  put 
chocolate  or  coffee  on  the  table  at  all  three  meals,  whereas  we 
had  expected  none  for  at  least  one  of  the  three.  Herrmann 
was  inclined  to  survey  the  whole  proceeding  as  a  joke,  which 
called  forth  a  few  serious  remarks  from  Captain  Warren, 
who  is  the  only  one  of  us  who  really  knows  the  terrors  of 
thirst. 

.  .  .  Jack  and  I  added  a  great  picture  to  our  brain-gallery 
on  Thursday.  Alone  in  the  cockpit,  we  watched  our  men 
rig  up  the  large  deck  awning,  tilted  up  at  the  sides,  the 
centre  breadths  lowered  at  the  forward  end  over  a  tub  set 
on  the  skylight,  while  a  funnel  was  stuck  into  the  opening 
of  the  'midship  tank  to  catch  all  gleanings  from  the  awning 
in  event  of  rain.  For  the  sky  had  clouded  and  the  wind 
freshened  from  N.N.B.,  and  squalls,  white  squalls  and  black, 
curtained  the  horizon.  The  awning  rigged,  our  men  rested ; 
and  the  picture  we  saw  was  of  three  of  them  leaning  at 
about  the  same  angle  on  a  boat,  watching  for  rain — un- 
consciously straining  forward  toward  the  thing  desired, 
one  mastering  thought  bringing  them  together  in  one 
bodily  expression  of  that  thought.  They  leaned  a  long  time, 
motionless,  absorbed,  unaware  of  our  scrutiny  or  our  ap- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  77 

preciation.  And  those  eluding  squalls  lifted  and  fell  and 
glided  like  marionettes  on  a  revolving  stage,  leaving  us  dry, 
until  about  midnight.  Between  then  and  daylight  about 
one  hundred  gallons  were  poured  into  the  'midship  tank. 
And  by  Saturday,  for  it  rained  on  and  off  till  then,  as  much 
water  was  stored  as  before  the  shortage  was  detected. 

You  have  been  wondering  at  our  sudden  discovery  of  this 
shortage  of  water?  (Bang,  rattle,  snap!  the  flying-jib  has 
just  carried  away.  The  only  advantage  of  this  is  that  the 
boat  doesn't  paw  quite  so  wildly  with  her  headsail  off.)  But 
as  I  was  saying.  In  a  sudden  squall  Tuesday  night,  during 
the  hoisting  of  the  spinnaker-boom,  in  some  way  the  faucet 
on  the  port  bow  tank  was  turned,  and  not  before  morning 
did  we  discover  our  loss.  Investigating  the  other  tanks,  on 
deck  and  below,  it  was  also  found  that  somebody  had  miscal- 
culated in  a  former  inspection,  and  we  found  ourselves 
facing  a  serious  predicament.  We  might  have  drifted 
around  in  these  doldrums  for  an  indefinite  time  without 
rain. 

To-day  we  are  still  three  hundred  and  seventy-nine  miles 
north  of  the  Equator,  with  a  current  setting  us  eastward. 
The  barometer  is  normal.  I  often  think  of  the  Stevensons 
in  the  Casco,  sailing  from  San  Francisco  to  the  Marquesas 
in  the  eighties. 

...  3  P.  M.  Jack  is  popping  away  at  some  snowy  pink- 
billed  bo's'n  birds  that  are  flying  very  close,  crying  sharply 
to  one  another.  A  rummaging  for  lost  possessions  has  been 
going  on  in  the  cabin,  and  Jack's  red  bathing-suit  came  to 
light  along  with  other  missing  articles.  And  speaking  of 
losing  things:  when  one  loses  them  on  land,  there  is  always 
the  possibility  of  recovering  them ;  but  at  sea,  when  a  thing 
is  overboard,  there  is  a  finality  about  it  that  is  positively 
startling.  That  canvas  bucket,  for  instance — the  new  one 
can  never  take  its  place,  and  we  know  we  shall  never  see 
the  old  one  again.  It  is  oscillating  somewhere  in  the  deep, 
pressed  equally  from  above  and  below,  there  to  stay  until 


78  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

dissolution  disposes  of  it  into  the  primordial  ooze.  And  the 
granes  broke  away  the  other  day;  also  a  white  silk  necker- 
chief with  a  red  border,  that  floated  astern  for  a  time,  then 
suddenly  disappeared — probably  into  the  maw  of  a  dolphin. 
Evidently  it  did  not  please  his  palate,  for  it  came  up 
promptly. 

.  .  .  Nakata  is  a  thing  of  joy  to  all  hands — except  to 
Herrmann,  who  cannot  understand  the  boy's  amused  incom- 
prehension of  his  queer  Dutch-English.  Herrmann  care- 
fully explains  technicalities  of  steering  to  Nakata,  who 
bends  his  oriental  brows  in  strict  attention  to  language 
he  wots  not  of  (although  he  is  learning  our  English  fast) 
and  then  promptly  brings  the  vessel  say  up  into  the  wind. 
This  sometimes  perilous  experiment  fetches  the  long-suffer- 
ing and  exasperated  Hollander  aft  on  the  jump,  to  explain 
with  augmented  ambiguity  of  speech,  that  that  was  what  he 
had  expressly  explained  to  him  not  to  do. 

I  myself  have  failed  in  one  glaring  particular,  to  elucidate 
something  to  the  cabin-boy,  namely,  that  "sir"  is  not  the 
accepted  manner  of  addressing  a  lady.  Perhaps  my  pajama 
knee-breeches  are  to  blame ;  but  when,  to  my  call,  he  cheerily 
responds,  "Yes,  sir!"  I  know,  by  his  correction  to  "Yes, 
man/'  that  all  my  care  in  pointing  out  the  contraction  of 
madam  has  gone  over  his  bristly  black  head,  and  that  he  is 
still  puzzled  as  to  why  he  should  say  "Yes,  man!"  to  a 
woman.  He  also  insists  gently  but  firmly  upon  calling  the 
cockpit  the  cockroom.  There  is  something  fascinating  about 
him,  his  ready  smile,  his  cheerfulness,  his  temperamental 
happiness — like  some  wild  thing  of  docile  instincts.  His 
frank  expectance  of  kindness,  as  expressed  in  his  winning 
bearing,  bring  him  goodwill  all  round.  The  captain  has  to 
hide  his  face  repeatedly,  for  the  sake  of  dignity  and  disci- 
pline, at  some  evidence  of  frisky  humour  on  the  part  of  the 
little  brown  mannikin  with  the  homely  face  that  his  smile 
makes  beautiful. 

.  .  .  Sometimes  down  through  the  open  skylight,  as  we 


The   Beach   at  Taiohae 


Marquesan   Tattooin< 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  79 

sit  at  work  in  our  cubby-holes,  come  fragments  of  conversa- 
tion that  hint  of  a  different  state  of  affairs  on  board  the 
Snark  from  that  of  old — hint  of  discipline,  and  continued 
discipline.  One  doesn't  hear  all;  but  the  other  day  the 
captain 's  voice  cut  out :  " Do  I  mean  it?  Wha' d 'you  sup- 
pose I  give  an  order  for,  if  I  don't  mean  it?"  But  there's 
plenty  of  friendliness  among  the  men,  although  it  doesn't 
do  for  a  minute  to  allow  a  sailor,  who  has  lived  on  law  and 
order  aboard  ship  all  his  life,  to  become  lax  on  a  boat  as 
small  as  ours.  Herrmann  is  so  extraordinarily  susceptible 
to  praise  or  notice  that  he  quite  loses  his  head  if  we  approve 
any  little  act  of  his,  and  begins  to  suggest  improvements  in 
everything  around  with  an  originality  and  fearlessness  that 
is  rather  discomfiting.  After  he  has  been  called  down  by 
the  master,  he  is  perfectly  lovely. 

...  A  week  ago  we  began  economising  on  fuel  by  hav- 
ing cold  suppers;  but  there  is  a  small  burner  aboard,  used 
for  melting  solder,  upon  which  Wada  manages  hot  drinks 
and  occasionally  rice  and  curry,  or  soup.  Our  table  is  a 
raised  skylight,  and  thus  we  have  a  chance  to  see  all  of  the 
sunset. 

On  Tuesday,  the  19th,  in  some  cider  we  unearthed  aboard, 
we  celebrated  the  second  anniversary  of  our  marriage. 
I  wish  we  knew  who  sent  it  to  us  so  we  could  return  thanks. 
Jack  waxed  reminiscent  and  regaled  the  others  with  anec- 
dotes of  our  honeymoon  in  Cuba  and  Jamaica.  And — well, 
here  we  are,  -out  together  hunting  the  thrills  of  new  experi- 
ences with  as  much  vigour  and  enthusiasm  as  ever,  and  no 
abatement  in  sight. 

Jack  has  the  delightful  characteristic  of  always  wanting 
to  share  everything  in  which  he  is  interested — his  amuse- 
ments, his  books,  or  the  thing  he  is  studying.  He  explains  to 
me  his  advancing  steps  in  navigation ;  he  reads  aloud  to  me ; 
he  wants  me  to  feel  the  tug  of  his  fish  on  the  line;  and  he 
draws  all  of  us  together  to  re-read,  aloud,  some  book  he 
knows  will  give  pleasure.  Sunday  forenoon,  having  done 


80  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

more  than  his  usual  "stint"  of  writing  the  previous  day, 
he  took  a  holiday  and  read  Conrad's  Typhoon  aloud,  to 
the  delight  of  the  sailormen.  And  so,  a  unity  of  good  spirit 
is  preserved  aboard,  because  one  man  is  fond  of  sharing 
knowledge,  the  acquirement  of  which  is  the  business  of  his 
life. 

There  is  one  of  Jack's  pleasures,  however,  that  I  cannot 
share  with  him,  what  of  a  congenital  lack.  This  is  his 
beard.  He  is  " letting  his  face  rest"  for  a  week,  and  as 
I  cannot  appreciate  the  rest  it  gives  him  to  let  his  whiskers 
grow,  it  makes  me  restless  to  contemplate  his  rough  chin 
and  jaw.  And  I  take  less  delight  in  any  sudden  and  un- 
foreseen juxtaposition.  But  I  consented  to  let  him  raise 
this  mat,  upon  his  promise  that  I  may  take  his  picture  just 
before  he  shaves. 

.  .  .  On  Wednesday  last,  Jack  landed  a  thirty-pound  dol- 
phin, one  of  the  finest  we  have  seen — all  exquisite  variations 
of  abalone  and  gold  and  blue,  green  and  rose.  We  tried  to 
capture  a  big  skate  that  bothered  around  for  hours,  attended 
by  two  white  baby  sharks  and  a  lot  of  pilot  fish.  But  the 
monster  flopped  away  finally  with  its  black  wing-like  pro- 
pellers. Wada  hooked  one  of  the  infant  sharks,  less  than 
two  feet  long,  which  cooked  up  into  the  best  baked  fish  we 
have  had. 

The  bonitas  are  easily  fooled  these  days  with  a  small 
white  rag  on  the  hook,  which  is  jerked  ahead  to  simulate  a 
flying-fish.  Friday,  the  22d,  the  boys  had  eighteen  bonitas 
on  deck  at  one  time.  Jack  added  a  good-sized 'dolphin,  and 
the  collection  was  hung  on  a  pole  reaching  clear  across  the 
deck  amidship,  from  shroud  to  shroud,  a  flying-fish  dangling 
at  one  end,  the  bonitas  grading  up  to  the  big  dolphin  at  the 
other  end.  Since  then  bonitas  are  caught  for  the  keen  sport 
only,  and  thrown  immediately  back.  They  are  a  hunger- 
cruel  spawn.  The  instant  one  is  hooked,  his  mates  make  a 
rush  for  him.  Many  a  fish,  even  dolphin,  brought  aboard, 
shows  healing  wounds  from  great  mouthfuls  that  have  been 
taken  out  by  its  enemies,  many  of  them  among  its  own  kind. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  81 

The  stomach  of  a  fish  usually  tells  the  story  of  this  con- 
tinual fight  for  existence. 

It  is  a  wonderful  sight,  in  a  squall  at  night  when  the 
vessel  is  racing  over  the  water,  to  behold  in  the  depths  shoals 
of  bonitas  slipping  along  whitely  in  the  phosphorescence, 
their  flight  in  perfect  relation  to  the  speed  of  the  boat,  so  that 
they  look  like  pale  stones  seen  in  the  bed  of  a  stream.  By 
day,  their  backs  show  like  swift  olive-brown  shadows,  until 
they  turn  their  gleaming  sides  up  to  the  light.  Two  of  the 
latest  catches  weighed  twenty-five  and  twenty-four  pounds 
respectively — chunky,  fat  fish. 

Lat.       6°     2'  North, 
Lon.  125°  30'  West. 
Tuesday,  November  26,  1908. 

Referring  again  to  our  fishy  satellites,  last  evening  while 
we  were  listening  to  Typhoon  in  a  flood  of  rosy  light,  the 
water  pink,  the  clouds  bright  pink,  and  the  sky  of  startling 
blue,  an  enormous  dolphin  was  playing  about,  leaping  clear 
and  falling  loudly  on  his  side,  over  and  over  again,  adding 
to  the  evening  radiance  his  flash  of  blue-white — his  colour- 
mood  for  the  moment.  When  a  dolphin  has  felt  the  tear  of 
the  hook,  and  got  away,  or  when  he  has  carried  the  hook 
off,  he  leaps  and  flashes  through  the  air,  recklessly  shak- 
ing himself,  landing  on  his  side  or  his  back  with  a  crash, 
with  all  the  mad  abandon  of  a  colt  in  the  breaking  yard. 

.  .  .  The  wind  has  gone  nearly  into  the  southeast  and  it 
now  looks  probable  that  we  may  be  picking  up  the  trades. 
There  is  a  good-sized  sea  and  swell  running,  and  it  is 
hard  to  adjust  one's  movements  to  the  lunges  of  the  boat 
when  she  takes  a  header  into  the  abyss  or  is  flung  from  the 
crest  of  one  big  wave  only  to  fetch  up  smack  against  the 
next.  But  the  little  Snark  noses  her  way  pretty  wisely  in 
the  labyrinth  of  heaving  hills,  and  no  small  vessel  could 
ride  more  easily  than  she. 

.  .  .  Something  very  reassuring  and  encouraging  oc- 
curred just  now.  The  fly  ing- jib  was  not  replaced  after 


82  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

carrying  away,  and  we  sailed  all  night  without  it.  This 
morning  the  jib-sheet  was  unhooked,  and  the  jib  also  hauled 
in,  after  which  the  mainsail  was  lowered,  to  put  in  a  new 
lace-line — the  rope  that  laces  the  head  of  the  sail  to  the 
gaff,  and  which  had  worn  through  during  the  night.  Jack 
was  bringing  the  yacht  up  into  the  wind  to  ease  things  for 
the  men  working  on  the  mainsail,  and  all  at  once  the  good 
thing  happened.  The  Snark  was  right  up  in  the  wind,  prac- 
tically hove  to,  under  staysail  and  mizzen,  in  light  wind,  and 
with  a  moderately  heavy  sea  kicked  up  by  the  blow  that  had 
preceded  that  light  wind.  And  she  would  not  heave  to 
that  night  coming  from  San  Francisco  to  Hawaii!  But 
why?  Why?  That  is  our  everlasting  query.  The  captain 
says  it  is  ridiculous  to  think  she  would  not  heave  to; 
we  agree  with  him,  perfectly.  But  she  did  refuse,  just 
the  same.  As  Jack  says,  "I  don't  believe  it — I  only  saw 
it." — How  one  learns  to  love  a  boat.  I  am  beginning  to 
appreciate  how  sailors  feel  about  ships,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pens, never  quite  admitting  even  to  themselves  that  the 
vessel  is  at  fault.  Captain  Warren  swears  more  and  more 
heartily  by  the  Snark  the  more  he  sees  of  her  performances. 

.  .  .  And  now,  at  9  :50  A.  M.,  every  visible  sign  points  to 
our  being  in  the  southeast  trades — the  blue,  white-capped  sea 
running  with  the  wind,  the  wind  itself,  the  "wool-pack" 
clouds.  All  at  once  I  am  willing  and  even  anxious  to  reach 
the  islands — to  see  land  again,  mountains,  bays  and  safe  an- 
chorages; to  eat  fruit,  and  fruit,  and  more  fruit — bananas, 
guavas,  oranges  and  lemons  and  limes,  yams,  breadfruit, 
taro.  .  .  . 

We  have  all  bet  a  dollar  each  with  Jack,  who  wagers  that 
we  shall  see  the  Marquesas  by  December  12;  but  it  begins 
to  look  as  if  he  may  win. 

.  .  .  Martin  developed  a  roll  of  film  for  me  yesterday,  and 
spilt  his  hypo  on  the  bathroom  floor;  but  he  went  right  on 
developing  where  the  fluid  deepened  in  the  leeward  corner. 
This  morning,  asked  the  cause  of  the  peculiar  odour,  Nakata 
enlightened  us  with:  "Mr.  Johnson  ...  he  ...  yester- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  83 

day  .  .  .  make  come  kodak-medicine ! "  "Nakata's  latest" 
is  a  sort  of  daily  newspaper.  I  verily  believe  that  if  the 
Snark  went  down  with  all  hands,  our  last  conscious  picture 
would  be  of  Nakata's  toothy  smile,  and  the  last  sound  in 
our  ears  would  be  the  paean  of  sheer  exultation  of  being  that 
this  child  of  Japan  lets  out  whenever  anything  happens, 
whether  of  good  or  ill. 

.  .  .  During  these  weeks  under  the  tropic  sun  I  am  sur- 
prised at  my  lack  of  deep  sunburn.  To  be  sure,  I  am  less 
white ;  but  considering  that  I  seldom  wear  a  hat,  only  shad- 
ing my  eyes  with  a  green  visor,  this  freedom  from  tan  is  re- 
markable. Herrmann  remarked  quite  innocently  one  day 
that  the  only  man  aboard  who  was  not  burned  was  Mrs. 
London.  But  my  hair  is  burning — a  gorgeous  red  and  yel- 
low, without  apparent  loss  of  gloss  or  moisture.  It  is 
"Oh-h-h-h  beautiful  nice!"  according  to  the  exuberant 
cabin-boy. 

Lat.      5°  41'  North, 
Lon.  126°     2'  West. 
Wednesday,  November  27,  1908. 

My  birthday — and  we  are  celebrating  with  a  true  south- 
east trade.  We  have  logged  one  hundred  and  two  knots 
in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  now,  at  4 :30  p.  M.,  are  smok- 
ing along  on  a  course  of  south  by  west.  Jack  and  the 
captain  are  grinning  and  chuckling  like  schoolboys  over  a 
chart  of  the  Marquesas  and  Paumotus,  spread  between  them 
on  the  rudder-box,  while  the  captain  reads  aloud  "Hostyle 
Inhabitants"  over  and  over,  printed  against  tiny  dots  of 
islands  in  the  Paumotu  cluster.  Jack  has  just  looked  up, 
in  answer  to  my  question,  with  "It's  a  hundred  to  one  now 
that  we'll  make  Nuka-Hiva  all  right.  We're  on  the  home- 
stretch— "  " — And  a  short  home-stretch — excuse  me,  sir!" 
interrupts  the  captain,  with  shining  face.  They  both  agree 
that  ei^ht  or  ten  days  "at  this  lick"  ought  to  bring  us  to 
port.  Martin  popped  a  land-famished  face  over  the  boat- 
swain's locker  a  moment  ago,  and  asked  what  I  was  smiling 
about.  And  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  I  am  now  frankly 


84  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

satisfied  to  exchange  these  longed-for  days  of  all  work  and 
no  fresh  fruit,  for  a  different  programme.  Also,  I  want  a 
level  place  to  sleep  on  for  a  spell,  where  I  can  present  the 
unwinking  eye  of  sleep  to  "Policeman  Day"  for  about  ten 
hours  at  a  stretch.  I  have  had  but  one  uninterrupted  night 
in  fifty-two. 

I  inaugurated  my  birthday's  entrance  by  catching  two 
large  bonitas,  landing  one  of  them  unaided;  also  I  hooked 
a  good-sized  dolphin,  but  lost  my  head  and  forgot  to  '  *  play ' ' 
him,  so  he  broke  the  hook  and  streaked  for  parts  unknown. 
Jack  was  hugely  elated  over  my  catch — the  first  time  I  have 
tried.  Once,  I  caught  six  mackerel  in  Penobscot  Bay;  and, 
unmentionable  years  before,  I  bent-pin-hooked  thirty-five 
minnows,  without  bait !  This  is  the  extent  of  my  fishing  ex- 
perience. 

Dolphins  and  bonitas  are  with  us  in  gleaming  hordes 
to-day.  The  Snark  is  flushing  the  flying-fish  for  them, 
most  of  which  seem  to  be  four-winged,  like  dragon-flies — 
dragon-flies  of  the  deep,  sailing  down  the  wind. — It  is 
continual  slaughter,  and  they  are  a  cruel  lot,  these  big  fish ; 
but  by  what  manner  of  reasoning  cruel?  What  other  food 
than  their  own  kind  is  provided  for  them  by  beneficent  na- 
ture? And  when  they  are  haled  aboard  by  their  unwilling 
mouths,  straining  and  resisting,  staring  horribly  with  lid- 
less  eyes  of  fright,  it  all  lines  up  in  one's  mind  as  a  game — 
a  game  wherein  men  and  fishes  and  beasts  destroy  to  live. 
And  war  of  man  or  war  of  fish  or  beast,  it  is  all  of  a  piece 
with  the  game. 

Jack  harpooned  three  dolphins  to-day,  using  the  harpoon 
in  lieu  of  the  lost  granes;  but  it  is  not  the  proper  weapon 
for  them,  does  not  go  easily  into  their  firm  bodies,  and 
they  get  away.  But  they  doggedly  stay  with  us,  recognis- 
able by  their  scratches,  as  intent  as  ever  upon  damaging 
smaller  and  weaker  ones. 

Last  evening  at  supper  time  there  was  the  worst  rain 
squall  we  have  ever  weathered.  It  came  from  two  direc- 
tions— or  rather  they  did,  for  two  squalls  struck  at  about 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  85 

the  same  time,  one  from  the  weather  quarter,  one  from  the 
weather  bow.  Below,  holding  the  dishes  from  spilling  into 
cfur  laps,  we  knew  only  that  the  Snark  stayed  down  a  long 
time;  but  the  captain,  coming  to  supper — it  was  over 
quickly — said  it  was  our  stiffest  squall  yet.  Earlier  in 
the  day  I  had  my  most  disagreeable  experience  on  the 
voyage.  I  had  settled  before  the  typewriter  in  my  state- 
room. Everything  was  lovely — thewindsail  pumping  cool- 
ness down  through  the  open  skylight,  the  decklight  open, 
with  a  poncho  spread  on  my  bunk  to  catch  any  chance  spray 
that  might  come  down ;  I  had  just  typed  ''Chapter  XXX"  at 
the  head  of  a  page  with  four  carbon  copies  under  it — and 
then  the  deluge.  My  newly  cleaned  and  oiled  machine  was 
drenched  with  salt  water,  inside  and  out;  the  water  ran 
down  my  draw-tables  into  the  packed  lockers  beneath  the 
bunk;  a  gallon  or  so  fell  through  the  decklight  on  to  the 
poncho,  and  I  was  quite  forlorn  with  water.  I  felt  like  a 
quenched  candle,  and  went  about  dispiritedly  soaking  up  the 
brine  with  cloth  and  sponge,  while  it  took  Martin  the  best 
part  of  two  hours  to  get  the  devastating  salt  water  off  the 
typewriter  and  the  works  carefully  oiled.  Just  to  show 
how  quickly  rust  forms  in  this  climate:  Jack  had  shaved  in 
the  morning  (and  I  did  not  get  that  photograph,  after 
all ! )  ;  and  being  called  on  deck  suddenly,  asked  me  to  lay 
the  soapy  safety-razor  on  his  bunk.  Within  two  hours  red 
rust  was  on  the  blade. 


Lat       1°  18'  North, 
Lon.  127°  30'  West. 
Friday,  November  29,  11)07. 

The  only  thing  that  roused  me  at  seven  this  morning,  after 
a  disturbed  night,  was  a  dash  of  cold  water  that  sent  me 
shooting  feet-first  out  of  my  canvas  covert  alongside  the 
cockpit — the  dryest  place  I  had  been  able  to  select  this 
breezy  weather.  It  was  a  second  dose,  the  first  having 
caught  me  just  after  I  went  to  sleep,  about  ten,  when  the 
lee-quarter  failed  to  dodge  the  edge  of  a  wave  going 


86  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

obliquely  astern.  That  time  I  got  it  on  the  head,  and  slept 
damp.  Herrmann  has  hung  me  a  canvas  stretcher  between 
cockpit  rail  and  weather  rail,  with  a  tent-like  protection 
from  the  spray.  It  was  very  rough,  angling  across  the  big 
seas;  and  the  jaws  on  the  mizzen-gaff,  which  are  chewing 
away  at  the  mast  till  the  chewed  section  is  in  splinters, 
rubbed  skreakily  all  night,  the  bell  in  the  cockpit  keeping 
up  a  doleful  rhythm  like  a  fog-bell.  For  all  our  bobbed-off 
little  craft  with  her  barnacled  copper  and  her  small  sails 
wrought  for  ease  of  handling  and  comfortable  sailing,  we 
logged  seven  knots  during  the  night,  and  this  morning,  at 
ten,  we  have  covered  one  hundred  and  twenty  knots  since 
noon  yesterday — and  still  humming.  Captain  Warren  is 
keeping  the  vessel  off  a  little,  for  the  comfort  of  Jack  writ- 
ing below,  so  that  he  can  have  the  weather  skylight  open  and 
the  windsail  working.  But  think  how  wonderfully  "dry" 
the  Snark  is.  The  few  instances  I  have  cited  of  water  com- 
ing aboard,  are  all  I  can  remember — a  pretty  good  record 
for  these  many  weeks  in  squalls  and  rough  seas.  Oh,  yes — 
one  other  instance :  last  evening  Jack  and  I  were  perched  up 
forward  on  the  windy  weather  bow  of  the  launch,  dodging 
flying  spray  and  drinking  deep  the  flowing  trade,  while 
watching  the  everlasting  miracle  of  bright  fishes  darting  so 
effortlessly  and  swiftly.  Finally  came  a  monster  swell  that 
the  Snark  decided  to  have  a  little  fun  with  at  our  expense. 
She  rose  like  a  hunter  at  a  fence  and  then  descended,  the 
wave  curving  back  and  down  from  her  bow,  but  the  wind 
flinging  the  heavy  spray  upward.  Jack's  feet  preceded  his 
body  up  the  rigging,  while  I,  farthest  from  the  rigging, 
hanging  to  a  horizontal  steel  stay  back  of  my  head,  raised  my 
own  feet  and  escaped  some  of  the  drenching.  I  wish  I  had 
a  picture  of  the  pair  of  us.  The  bulk  of  the  water  went 
below,  all  over  the  set  dinner  table,  on  the  leeward  seat  in 
the  cabin,  on  my  bunk,  a  gallon  or  so  piling  up  in  the  floor- 
corners.  But  these  infrequent  splashings  are  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  sweeping  a  "wet"  fast  yacht  endures,  where 
there  is  no  comfort  on  deck,  because  of  water,  and  none  be- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  87 

low  for  closeness  of  air.  Why,  the  Stevensons  were  kept  in 
the  cabin  for  days  at  a  time  when  the  Casco  was  doing  her 
best  paces. 

We  are  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  Line, 
as  we  go — about  ninety  as  the  bird  flies ;  and  to-morrow  we 
hope  to  cross — into  the  South  Sea  at  last.  The  weather  is 
actually  cool.  The  books  tell  us  that  the  southeast  trades 
are  cooler  than  the  northeast.  Fancy  the  charm  of  verify- 
ing this  and  that  item  in  the  old  books — especially  in  such  a 
little  travelled  section  of  the  globe. 

The  fishes  are  unusually  beautiful  this  morning — to  the 
leeward  the  bonitas  showing  red  like  autumn  leaves  in  a 
torrent.  Sometimes  they  display  a  streak  of  this  glowing 
crimson  underneath  when  they  are  brought  to  deck,  but  never 
before  have  I  seen  them  so  red  in  the  water.  It  is  some- 
thing to  live  for,  once  to  behold,  near  the  close  of  day,  an 
upstanding  wave  between  you  and  the  sun,  transparent  blue, 
green-topped,  white-tipped,  sun-shot,  and  glinted  through 
with  rainbow  shapes  of  the  sea. 

.  .  .  Inconceivable  and  Monstrous,  again!  Yesterday 
Captain  Warren  ordered  the  topsail  set.  So  far  on  the  voy- 
age it  had  never  been  set.  It  was  promptly  dragged  forth 
from  where  I  had  been  sleeping  on  its  folds  for  many  a 
night.  Herrmann  was  aloft  in  the  hot  sun  for  quite  a  while, 
making  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  get  it  set.  Finally  the 
captain  took  a  climb,  for  something  was  radically  wrong. 
Then  the  trouble  was  made  plain.  When  it  was  discovered, 
in  California,  that  the  mizzen-mast  had  been  stepped  too 
far  forward  to  allow  for  the  mainsail,  instead  of  re-stepping 
the  mizzen-stick  (which  should,  by  all  that  is  right  and  hon- 
est, have  been  done),  the  mainsail  had  been  cut  down  and 
the  topsail  left  as  it  was — to  match  a  mainsail  that  no  longer 
existed  so  far  as  its  original  size  was  concerned.  This  is  the 
second  time  on  the  voyage  it  has  been  set,  and  we  now  realise 
why  Roscoe  took  it  in  so  hastily  the  first  time. 

(Right  here,  a  bonita  close  by  leaped  his  length  into  the 
air,  got  his  flying-fish,  and  we  saw  him  with  the  rainbow  half 


88  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

swallowed,  as  he  tumbled  ingloriously  back  into  the  water 
tail-first. ) 

Lat.       8°  11'  South, 
Lon.  138°  West. 
Aboard  the  Snark,  South  Seas, 
Thursday,  December  5,  1907. 

There  is  one  incident  in  human  affairs  that  it  is  safe  to 
say  never  fails  of  interest,  never  palls.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
only  one — but  I  will  not  go  that  far.  The  raising  of  land 
on  the  horizon  is  the  one  thing  that  induces  a  thrill  even  in 
the  most  experienced — from  the  very  connoisseur  of  trav- 
ellers to  the  oldest  sailor  afloat.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
centred  in  my  soul  all  the  fascinated,  illusioned  expectation 
of  all  peoples  in  all  days  under  similar  conditions;  for  to- 
morrow is  the  day  when  we  confidently  hope  to  see  land,  the 
first  in  nine  weeks,  come  Monday  next.  It  seems  as  if  I  can 
hardly  wait  for  the  loom  of  it  ahead.  How  will  it  look? 
Will  it  be  floating  in  the  blue  and  gold  of  sunset,  or  will  it 
show  hazily  in  the  blazing  afternoon? — or  mayhap  in  the 
pearl  and  rose  of  dawn?  "The  first  love,  the  first  sunrise, 
the  first  South  Sea  Island,  are  memories  apart  and  touch  a 
virginity  of  sense. "  Thus  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

We  crossed  the  Line  last  Saturday,  November  30,  in  longi- 
tude 128°  45' — which  was  even  a  little  better  than  Captain 
Warren  expected;  and  immediately  we  fell  in  with  such 
cool  temperature  that  I  promptly  caught  cold.  It  doesn't 
sound  probable,  I  know,  that  right  below  the  Equator  I 
caught  my  first  cold  in  months ;  but  I  'm  the  one  that  caught 
it,  and  I  ought  to  know. 

We  had  planned  to  do  some  weird  stunts  to  celebrate 
crossing  the  Line ;  but  it  turned  out  a  very  busy  day  in  one 
way  and  another,  in  which  there  seemed  no  place  for  pranks. 
I  copied  ninety  pages  of  Jack's  manuscript,  for  one  thing — 
work  I  had  neglected  for  other  work.  We  must  have  tripped 
up  against  Neptune  somewhere,  however,  for  I  found  yellow 
whiskers  that  looked  very  much  like  rope-ravellings,  on  the 
stays  under  the  bowsprit. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  89 

While  I  write,  lying  under  the  life-boat  for  shade,  the 
men  are  trying  to  lure  a  big  shark  that  is  sniffing  around. 
He  is  of  a  size  to  make  one  glad  of  a  few  planks  between. 
The  waves  are  a-hiss  with  leaping  bonitas  fighting  for 
some  food  they  have  run  into,  any  unlucky  one  that  hap- 
pens to  get  bitten  being  immediately  devoured  by  the  rest. 
We  have  not  seen  a  single  dolphin  since  the  day  before  we 
crossed  the  Equator.  "They  dropped  us  cold!"  said  Mar- 
tin. The  bonitas  and  flying-fishes  alone  have  been  sliding 
with  us  down  the  bulge  of  the  earth  since  we  topped  the  rise, 
at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  forty  miles  a  day.  Night 
and  day,  night  and  day,  everywhere  we  turn,  the  countless 
purplish-coppery  bodies  of  the  blood-mad  destroyers  keep  us 
in  sight  while  we  thresh  out  the  flying-fishes  for  them. 

Ah,  but  I  forgot  the  Wiggler!  He  lives  and  moves  and 
has  his  being  under  our  keel,  wriggling  out  occasionally  to 
take  a  snap  at  a  passing  bonita,  like  an  irascible  little  back- 
yard terrier.  He  is  about  a  foot  and  a  half  long,  and  of  a 
whitish  green — a  sort  of  suppressed  hue,  showing  like  a  cel- 
lar-plant among  gay  flowers  when  he  lines  up  against  the 
sun-blazoned  bonitas.  On  Sunday,  the  spinnaker  was  set, 
and  as  we  begin  gliding  ahead  at  a  seven-knot  clip,  in  the 
wake  we  saw  our  Wiggler,  left  a  little  astern  on  one  of  his  ex- 
peditions out  from  under.  He  was  making  the  run  of  his 
life  to  catch  up.  We  yelled  and  hooted  affectionate  encour- 
agement— he  was  doing  such  a  plucky  and  manful  sprint, 
nearly  wagging  his  tail  off.  ' '  Go  it,  you  son-of -a-seacook ! ' ' 
" Come  on,  now,  once  more !  That's  it!"  "You'll  make  it, 
keep  up  the  fight ! ' '  were  heard  from  various  quarters  of  the 
stern  rail.  Presently  it  seemed  as  if  the  chase  were  lost. 
The  only  way  we  might  have  helped  him  was  by  throwing 
him  a  line — with  a  hook  on  it.  Martin  saw  him  next  day, 
however,  as  much  at  home  as  ever;  but  he  surely  had  his 
fins  full  to  make  up  the  speed  handicap  caused  by  that  spin- 
naker. 

.  .  .  We  are  betting  heavily  as  to  who  will  first  see 
land.  I  am  pledged  for  all  of  forty  cents  among  my  ship- 


90  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

mates.  It  cannot  be  more  than  a  hundred  miles  dead  ahead ; 
but  the  sun  is  in  our  eyes,  and  it  is  not  a  14,000  foot  Sand- 
wich Island  mountain  we  are  looking  for — only  one  of  2800 
feet.  We  are  going  to  lose  our  dollar  bets  to  Jack,  for  the 
date  we  wagered  on  fetches  up  to  the  12th,  one  week  from 
to-day. 

Jack  is  sitting  on  the  weather  rail,  with  his  feet  in  a  pail 
of  fresh  water — unwonted  extravagance.  He  has  not  had  a 
shoe  on  these  two  months,  and  is  trying  to  coax  his  feet  into 
shape  for  the  trial  that  awaits  them,  who  knows? — maybe 
to-morrow.  In  order  not  to  waste  his  golden  hour,  he  is 
reading,  and  also,  at  intervals,  shooting  bonitas  with  his 
22- Winchester  automatic  rifle.  I  wish  I  had  known  him 
better  before  I  married  him! — just  listen  to  this:  Yester- 
day I  said,  "I  don't  feel  like  typing  to-day."  " Don't  do  it 
on  the  boat  then,"  urged  Jack  kindly.  " Don't  type  until 
you  get  to  TYPE-E!!!" 

.  .  .  There  have  been  many  heralds  of  the  land  about  us 
the  past  two  days — various  kinds  of  birds,  with  gunies  and 
boobies  among  them;  bo's'ns,  and  smaller  white  birds,  flut- 
tering by  twos,  like  love  letters  in  the  wind  against  the  blue 
sky.  There  are  small  black  birds,  too,  and  brownish  grey 
ones,  neither  of  which  we  know. 

The  South  Seas — think  of  it,  we  are  sailing,  beautifully 
sailing,  over  the  very  waves  of  that  storied  region  of  islands 
of  strange  form  and  composition,  peopled  by  strange  men  of 
unspeakable  customs.  But  we  are  not  in  time — the  devastat- 
ing civilising  years  have  preceded  the  Snark  venture,  and 
we  can  only  see  the  islands  themselves  with  little  trace  of  the 
people  who  roamed  them  of  old.  What  of  Melville's  Valley 
of  Typee  now?  But  listen:  When  I  wander  through 
Typee,  a  few  days  hence,  I  am  going  to  people  it  to  suit  my 
fancy ;  I  am  going  to  see  the  chiefly  Mohiva  and  kind  Kory- 
Kory,  and  the  matchless  Fayaway,  and  all  their  beauteous 
straight-featured  tribe.  I  alone  may  see  them,  but  see  them 
I  will! 

The  other  day  I  read  a  book  by  Edwin  Somebody-or-other, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  91 

in  which  he  tells  with  casual  cleverness  of  his  meanderings 
among  the  islands  of  the  South  Seas,  and  in  his  chapter  on 
the  Marquesas,  especially  devoted  to  the  Island  of  Nuka- 
Hiva,  he  does  not  once  mention  Typee.  Can  it  incredibly  be 
that  he  never  heard  of  it? 

It  is  all  very  well  to  romance  about  the  fantasy  of  the 
South  Sea  Islands;  but  my  imagination  persists  in  rioting 
in  fields  of  cabbages  and  onions,  potatoes,  cauliflowers,  and 
luscious  tomatoes ;  in  taro  patches  and  fabulous  banana-  and 
cocoanut-  and  breadfruit-groves.  Captain  Warren's  desire 
carries  him  closer,  into  the  chicken-coop;  while  Martin  is 
content  to  dream  merely  of  the  nests — one  dozen  variously 
prepared  eggs  being  his  first  order. 

.  .  .  There  are  no  more  spectacular  twilights;  the  days 
have  grown  much  longer  than  they  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hill.  And  the  sunsets  do  not  compare  with  those  of  the 
Variables  and  the  Doldrums.  But  the  sailing  is  wonderfully 
lovely — the  boat  rocking,  rocking,  on  waves  that  pursue 
from  astern  and  overtake  and  propel  us,  spinnaker  and 
mainsail  winging  us  straight  toward  the  setting  sun. 

Nor  are  the  water  and  skies  so  gorgeous  as  we  found  them 
above  the  Equator ;  but  any  lacks  of  this  sort  are  offset  by 
the  "silver-winged  breeze"  that  blows  from  the  right  di- 
rection, and  every  hour  of  the  day  I  am  thankful  for  the 
change  from  past  exasperating,  bone-racking,  flesh-bruising 
head-seas  and  -winds.  Here  everything  is  with  us — wind  and 
billow,  fair  days  and  nights. 

...  I  am  curled  comfortably  in  a  hollow  of  the  life-boat 
cover,  shaded  by  the  mainsail,  and  the  swinging  of  the  boat  is 
so  restful — not  a  jar,  nothing  but  soothing  curves  and  un- 
dulations of  movement,  ever  rocking  forward  and  sidewise, 
but  imperceptibly  making  five  knots  an  hour  in  the  light  but 
steady  wind.  We  are  in  the  sun's  highway,  a  broad  and 
glittering  stretch  directly  before.  We  must  be  absorbing 
the  gold  as  well  as  the  miles,  for  there  is  none  of  it  in  our 
wake.  .  .  . 

We  often  try  to  picture  different  friends,  suddenly  trans- 


92  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ported  into  our  midst  aboard  the  Snark,  and  wonder  how 
they  would  comport  themselves.  With  no  experience  of  the 
sea  it  would  be  remarkable  if  they  saw  anything  beautiful 
in  earth  or  heaven.  The  roll  would  attend  to  that.  The 
smallness  of  the  boat,  the  nearness  of  the  water,  and 
particularly  the  size  of  the  waves,  would  about  wreck  a 
nervous  woman  for  the  time  being.  The  very  middle  of  the 
yacht  would  be  the  only  livable  place  for  her,  as  being 
farthest  removed  from  certain  destruction  over  the  awful 
rail.  Now,  I  am  not  making  sport  of  anybody.  I  can  pro- 
ject my  viewpoint  far  enough  to  put  myself  in  the  other 
fellow's  mind  under  such  a  strain.  I  have  been  here  a  long 
time  and  it  is  only  comparatively  lately  that  I  have  felt  quite 
secure,  free  from  nervousness  and  sickness. 

.  .  .  We  have  finished  Saleeby's  book,  and  are  now  read- 
ing Ball's  The  World's  Beginning.  Astronomy  helps  me  to 
new  appreciation  of  this  world  we  are  circumnavigating,  and 
of  the  whole  universe  of  worlds  and  suns.  At  night,  before 
turning  in,  we  lie  in  the  lifeboat  a  while,  Jack  and  I,  and 
study  the  Southern  skies,  sometimes  dropping  below  to  scan 
our  planispheres;  and  last  evening  we  had  a  feast  of  me- 
teors, that  streaked  long  trains  of  light  across  the  sky. 

Nightly  a  poker  game  obtains  in  the  second  dog  watch, 
and  the  only  monotony  in  it  that  seems  to  strike  Jack  and 
Martin  is  the  way  the  captain  wins  and  continues  to  win. 
He  usually  does  it  with  a  royal  flush  in  his  face  and  say  a 
pair  of  sixes  in  his  hand.  He  has  had  a  run  of  luck  that 
deserves  greater  scope. 

There  is  always  one  perfectly  contented  soul  in  our  party, 
no  matter  what  happens,  and  that  is  our  inimitable  cabin  boy. 
At  dinner  to-day  I  asked  him,  "Are  you  happy,  Nakata?" 
' '  I,  happy  ?  — oh-h-h,  Missisn,  v-e-r-r-y  happy — yes,  ma  'am. ' ' 
(He  has  mastered  the  "ma'am"  at  last.)  "But  why  happy, 
Nakata?"  I  pursued.  He  threw  back  his  head  to  look  up 
at  the  sunlight  through  the  companionway,  smiled  seraphi- 
cally  and  said  with  pure  sweetness:  "Oh,  ev-e-r-r-y-thing, 
Missisn ! ' ' 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  93 

.  .  .  The  only  thing  with  which  I  can  compare  my  state 
to-night,  is  my  Christmas  Eve  sensations  of  old  time.  I  am 
sure  there  must  be  a  stocking  of  mine  hanging  up  some- 
where on  the  boat,  and  that  there  is  going  to  be  something 
nice  in  it  when  I  wake. 

Lat.       8°  47'  South, 
Lon.  139°  44'  West. 

Aboard  the  Snark,  in  channel  between  Ua-Huka  and 
Nuka-Hiva,  Marquesas  Islands,  3 :30  P.  M., 
Friday,  December  0,  1907. 

Can't  you  see  it? — can't  you  see  it,  Cape  Martin  right  ahead 
there  in  the  west,  and  Comptroller  Bay  just  around  the  point? 
— Comptroller  Bay,  into  which  the  Valley  of  Typee  opens, 
where  Melville  escaped  from  the  cannibals.  Then  another 
and  dimmer  headland,  beyond  which  is  Taiohae,  where  we 
shall  anchor  at  sunset  if  the  fair  wind  holds. 

Captain  Warren  picked  up  Ua-huka  (Washington  Island) 
at  daylight,  and  the  first  I  heard,  awakening  under  the  life- 
boat, was  Herrmann  up  the  mainmast  calling  down.  But  so 
sure  was  I  of  my  full  stocking,  and  so  very  sleepy,  that  after 
rising  half-way  and  seeing  nothing,  I  subsided  for  another 
nap.  I  had  been  up  at  a  little  past  three,  looking  at  the 
Southern  Cross — the  first  time  below  the  Line. 

When  I  did  finally  turn  out,  I  saw  a  volcanic  island  of 
beautiful  form  and  proportion,  grey-green  and  shimmering 
in  the  morning  radiance.  We  sailed  toward  it,  passed  it,  and 
now  it  lies  astern,  touched  with  the  sunset.  The  island  looks 
as  if  it  has  had  a  drouth,  for  its  steeps  are  as  yellow  with 
dried  grass  as  California's  in  the  autumn,  with  here  and 
there  a  hint  of  dull  green. 

.  .  .  This  has  been  a  full  day.  I  was  bound  and  deter- 
mined that  I  should  not  be  caught  arriving  at  Taiohae  with 
a  lot  of  back  work  on  hand  on  the  typewriter — in  spite  of 
Jack's  vile  pun  on  Typee;  so  I  copied  a  chapter  of  his  novel, 
sacrificing  our  daily  reading;  closed  up  a  lot  of  letters  with 
the  advice  that  we  were  coming  into  port  (against  the  pos- 
sible sailing  of  some  vessel  from  Taiohae  immediately  after 


94  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

our  arrival),  and  did  a  thousand  little  things  for  shore-going. 
After  lunch  Jack  and  I  went  forward  with  our  rifles,  and 
shot  at  the  numerous  birds  fishing  in  the  olive  current  of  the 
channel.  It  was  my  first  shooting  at  moving  objects,  and, 
considering  that  the  aiming  was  from  a  plunging  boat,  I 
didn  't  do  so  badly,  for  I  got  three  boobies  on  the  wing,  two  or 
three  more  that  were  just  rising,  and  ruffled  the  feathers  of 
others.  Also,  I  struck  a  bonita,  which  instantly  up-bellied, 
and  as  instantly  disappeared  among  its  ravening  brothers. 
I  tried  porpoises,  and  they  immediately  grew  shy  and  came 
seldom  to  the  surface.  And  we  fired  at  a  small  whale,  but 
it  quickly  sank  out  of  danger. 

.  .  .  Now  we  are  nine  miles  from  Taiohae  Bay,  and  with 
the  glasses  can  just  pick  out  the  two  Sentinel  Rocks  guarding 
either  side  of  the  entrance.  The  headland  features  I  have 
already  mentioned  are  on  the  southern  side  of  the  island,  the 
northern  coast  stretching  far  to  our  right.  Cape  Martin 
reminds  me  of  the  castled  outlines  of  Wyoming,  with  a 
natural  tower  standing  atop  the  abrupt  black  head  of  the 
promontory.  The  face  of  the  island  toward  us,  the  east 
side,  seems  ruggedly  bluffed ;  and  above,  fold  on  fold  of  vol- 
canic green  mountains  range  back  and  up  to  the  highest  point 
of  the  island,  3890  feet.  Perhaps  that  is  the  farther  wall  of 
Typee  Valley  that  we  can  just  glimpse  beyond  those  first 
bluffs.  It  seems  to  me  I  never  wanted  to  see  a  place  as  I 
want  to  see  Typee. 

All  sorts  of  business  is  going  forward,  while  the  yacht 
slides  steadily  nearer.  The  captain  studies  the  coast  with 
his  binoculars;  Martin  is  putting  finishing  touches  of  green 
paint  and  aluminum  paint  on  the  rejuvenated  launch-engine. 
(It  had  been  about  given  up  by  Martin  until  Jack  got  out 
the  books  and  made  a  suggestion  that,  when  applied,  set  the 
machinery  going  merrily.)  Herrmann,  the  while  trying 
to  explain  how  it  happened  that  in  Honolulu  he  had 
bought  both  his  sea-boots  for  the  same  foot,  is  scraping  wood — 
teak,  pine,  oak,  on  yacht,  launch,  and  life-boat ;  Wada  steers ; 
the  spinnaker  has  just  been  taken  in,  and,  the  wind  hauling, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARE  95 

we  have  jibed  over.  The  sturdy  anchors  are  in  readiness  to 
let  go  when  we  come  to  our  resting-place,  and  111  warrant 
the  skipper  knows  exactly  where  the  red-marked  lead-line  is. 
Jack  is  stretched  out  beside  me  on  the  life-boat  cover,  reading, 
and,  I  think,  dreaming  a  little.  When  he  was  a  small  boy  he 
happened  on  Melville's  Typee,  and  promptly  thirsted  for 
Marquesan  exploration.  Years  later,  after  one  trip  to  sea, 
he  tried  to  ship  as  cabin  boy  on  a  sailing  vessel  bound  for 
these  islands,  but  failed  to  secure  the  berth,  for  he  thinks 
the  captain  must  have  seen  desertion  in  his  eye.  But  here 
he  is,  and  here  am  I,  lucky  enough  to  be  the  partner  of  his 
realised  adventure;  although  for  his  sake  I  wish  he  could 
have  fulfilled  his  desire  when  the  dream  was  young. 

.  .  .  The  little  Snark!  She  seems  to  be  reaching  out 
eagerly,  after  sixty  days  of  unremitting  motion,  for  her 
shelter  under  the  land.  Consider — for  six  times  ten  days  we 
have  never  been  still  one  moment.  I  am  afraid  the  imminent 
level  repose  that  threatens  will  disquiet  more  than  soothe, 
until  we  readjust. 

5  P.  M.  The  captain  is  now  thinking  of  putting  in  at 
Comptroller  Bay  for  the  night,  for  squalls  are  closing  in 
around  us  and  dimming  the  sunset  light  that  we  depended 
upon  for  conning  into  Taiohae  harbour.  I  rather  hope  we 
do  go  into  Comptroller.  It  would  be  enchanting  to  wake  in 
the  morning  with  Typee  Vai  spread  out  before  us. 

We  are  surrounded  by  untold  myriads  of  sooty  little  sea- 
swallows  with  white  heads  and  sweet  piping  voices.  As  we 
curtsy  past  Cape  Martin,  its  striking  profiles  change  from 
moment  to  moment,  and  we  can  see  green  trees  that  look  like 
Hawaiian  kukui,  trooping  up  the  shallow  erosions. 


Aboard  the  Snark,  Taiohae  Bay, 

Nuka-Hiva,  Marquesas  Islands, 
Saturday,  December  7,  1907.     10  A.  M. 

It  is  a  cyclorama  of  painted  cardboard,  done  by  an  artist 
whose  knowledge  of  perspective  was  limited.     The  walls  in- 


96  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

closing  the  green,  still  water  in  which  we  ride  at  anchor,  the 
pinnacles  and  bastions  half-way  to  the  ragged  scissored  sky- 
line, the  canyons  and  gorges,  sun-tanned  beaches,  grass-huts 
under  luxuriant  plumy  palms,  and  the  rich  universal  verdure 
— it  is  all  painted  boldly  on  upright  cardboard.  There  is  a 
rift  in  the  amphitheatre,  toward  the  sea,  and  on  either  side 
the  entrance,  booming  surf  breaks  upon  the  feet  of  the  two 
Sentinels  of  tilted  strata,  crowned  with  feathery  trees.  It  is 
an  astounding  scene,  and  cannot  be  compared  with  any  place 
I  ever  saw.  The  mirrored  effect  of  the  atmosphere  on  the 
perpendicular  mountains  is  not  unlike  that  on  Winward  Oahu 
in  Hawaii;  but  the  form  and  lines  of  the  landscape  round 
about  this  bay  surpass  anything  in  my  book  of  memory  pic- 
tures. 

The  entrance  looks  very  innocent  this  morning  in  a  sunny 
calm;  but  it  did  not  appear  so  harmless  last  evening,  our 
waning  daylight  shut  off  by  a  blinding  rain-squall,  just  when 
it  seemed  indispensable  that  we  should  see  clearly  in  order 
to  make  our  way  around  the  eastern  Sentinel.  The  captain 
had  finally  decided  to  try  for  Taiohae.  The  distance  across 
the  mouth  of  the  bay  is  only  seven  cable-lengths,  and  it  is 
necessary  to  hug  the  eastern  side,  because  the  equatorial  cur- 
rent sets  over  toward  the  west  shore  of  the  bay,  and  with 
only  light  fans  of  air,  there  is  liability  of  going  on  the  rocks. 

It  was  tense  and  delicate  work.  Every  one  was  on  deck, 
Jack  at  the  wheel,  Herrmann  standing  by  the  three  headsails, 
Martin  and  Wada  obeying  general  orders,  and  Nakata  haul- 
ing in  the  lead-line  for  the  captain  after  each  cast.  And 
over  it  all  was  the  trained  intelligence  of  the  captain,  whose 
was  the  responsibility  of  the  Snark  and  the  lives  on  board. 
He  stood  in  the  bow,  before  we  entered  the  harbour,  with, 
straining  eyes  on  the  fading  outlines  of  the  East  Sentinel, 
close  by  which  lay  safety,  and  praying  that  the  wind  would 
hold.  But  it  held  only  until  we  rounded  the  rock,  then  swept 
on  seaward  past  the  entrance,  leaving  us  to  fare  as  best  we 
might  with  current  and  tide,  rocks  and  surf.  The  spinnaker 
was  taken  in  and  the  mizzen  set,  and  each  man  returned  to 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  97 

his  post,  ready  for  prompt  obedience.  I  longed  to  be  a  man, 
to  take  some  active  part ;  but  they  don 't  let  me  do  much — and 
besides,  there  are  plenty  of  men  to  handle  the  boat.  (Why, 
the  picturesque  500-ton  bark  lying  yonder  carries  only  eleven 
men,  while  our  ten-ton  yacht  has  six  all  told. ) 

I  was  fascinated  with  the  working  of  the  Snark.  The  cap- 
tain's  questions,  "How  is  she  now?"  or  "How  is  she  head- 
ing?" were  rapid  and  frequent;  and  Jack,  eye  on  binnacle, 
busy  with  instant  replies  and  instant  compliance,  had  no 
chance  for  extraneous  observation.  Muffled  in  oilskins,  I  sat 
on  the  cockpit  rail,  and  posted  him  on  what  I  saw — the 
looming  rocks  close  at  hand,  the  white-toothed  breakers  snap- 
ping hungrily  and  loudly,  and  the  vague  suggestion  of  the 
dreaded  western  shore.  Captain  Warren  commanded  my 
respect.  His  head  was  clear,  and  he  seemed  high-strung  in  a 
way  that  only  refined  his  certitude  of  judgment  and  action. 
Much  though  I  have  absorbed  of  knowledge  of  the  sea,  in 
relation,  at  least,  to  our  ^particular  craft,  I  was  open-mouthed 
at  his  quickness  of  perception.  I  knew,  of  course,  how  care- 
fully he  had  "crammed"  the  sailing-directions,  and  how 
sharply  the  chart  was  reproduced  on  his  brain;  and  these 
things,  coupled  with  his  practical  experience,  were  sufficient 
to  satisfy  my  reason ;  but  it  was  wonderful  just  the  same — as 
man  is  wonderful  in  everything  that  raises  him  to  primacy 
over  the  brute  earth-forces. 

By  and  bye  we  picked  up  the  "fixed  red  light,"  hung  at 
ninety  feet,  described  in  the  Directions,  and  had  some- 
thing tangible  to  steer  by.  We  fanned  in,  tack  upon 
tack,  with  the  mere  breathing  of  the  mountains  to  give  us 
steerage-way.  The  Snark  responded  faithfully  to  the  hand 
on  her  helm  when  there  was  the  faintest  air  to  make  it  pos- 
sible. The  near  water  was  very  still,  and  sometimes  the  only 
way  we  could  tell  that  we  were  inching  ahead  was  by  the 
slight  passing  riffle  against  the  boat.  The  bay  is  very  deep 
along  its  sides,  so  we  had  no  especial  worry  except  for  the 
current.  Once  or  twice  we  seemed  to  be  drifting  toward 
the  west,  for  the  sound  of  the  surf  from  that  direction  came 


98  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

clearly.  Then  suddenly  a  big  light  flared  out  in  the  murk 
ahead,  although  try  as  we  would  with  our  glasses  we  could 
not  make  out  whether  it  was  on  land  or  vessel. 

But  as  we  approached  our  anchorage,  there  were  other  and 
less  disquieting  sounds  in  our  ears  than  breakers.  Down 
from  obscure  heights  drifted  the  querulous  bleating  of  kids, 
which  I  bewildered  into  more  distressful  tones  by  answer- 
ing them  in  kind.  And  then  a  cock  crew  cheerily,  and 
another,  while  the  venerable  blat  of  a  patriarchal  goat 
hushed  the  timorous  young.  The  breath  from  the  darksome 
steeps  came  down  fragranced  with  spice  of  flowers — the 
yellow  cassi  loved  of  wasps,  which  distils  perfume  far  and 
wide. 

At  quarter  before  ten  we  dropped  anchor  in  nine  fathoms, 
having  passed  the  entrance  at  about  7:30.  You  cannot 
imagine  what  a  feeling  of  utter  rest  followed  the  rush  of 
the  anchor  chain  through  the  hawsepipe — the  sea-song  of 
adventure.  We  found  ourselves  unexpectedly  tired,  and 
although  we  slept  in  the  warm  below  on  account  of  rain,  we 
slept  profoundly.  I  know  I  did  not  turn  over  in  seven  hours. 
I  was  awakened  by  voices  on  deck,  and  coming  up  found  that 
Mr.  Kreiech,  the  German  trader  who  has  charge  of  the 
Taiohae  Branch  of  the  Societe  Commerciale  de  1'Oceanie,  had 
called.  I  could  see  him  going  shoreward,  a  big  figure  stand- 
ing in  an  outrigger  canoe  paddled  by  scarlet-breeched 
Marquesans. 

...  It  seems  rather  odd,  as  the  morning  wears  on,  that 
no  one  else  comes  out — only  one  indolent  native  has  had 
curiosity  enough  to  approach — a  well-featured  brown  fellow. 
We  sent  him  in  search  of  bananas,  and  he  wanted  five  francs 
for  one  bunch.  He  accepted  half  of  that  with  perfect  con- 
tentment ;  and  then  we  all  fell  to  and  stuffed  inordinately  on 
this  first  fresh  fruit  in  two  months,  and  agreed  that  we  had 
never  eaten  bananas  before,  so  luscious  were  these. 

As  we  have  seemed  to  be  in  no  danger  of  interruption  from 
the  beach,  we  have  gone  ahead  with  our  work  as  usual — in 
the  cockpit,  shaded  by  the  awning.  Little  flaws  of  wind, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  99 

pollen-scented,  flurry  down  upon  us  from  the  pictured  walls 
of  the  amphitheatre,  that  are  slowly  taking  on  a  less  artificial 
aspect — losing  nothing  of  their  exquisite  beauty,  but  becom- 
ing more  earthly  and  approachable.  The  water  is  not  clear — 
rather  a  dull  olive-green,  deepening  into  rich  blue  toward 
the  mouth  of  the  bay.  Outside,  we  can  see  the  channel  white- 
caps  racing  past  the  Sentinels. 

.  .  .  After  lunch  we  climbed  reluctantly  into  our  "  store 
clothes,"  shoes  being  particularly  odious.  I  had  in  my 
mind's  eye  pictures  of  several  provincial  white  women,  wives 
of  the  traders,  and  arrayed  myself  with  care  in  brown  linen 
with  a  touch  of  red  scarf  and  corals — a  "neat  but  not  gaudy" 
effect  that  was  destined  to  be  appreciated  solely  by  our  own 
crowd  and  Mr.  Kreiech  and  his  assistant  Mr.  Rahling,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  silver-laced  old  French  Marechal  who  looked 
over  our  ship 's  papers ;  and  to  be  wondered  at  by  the  natives. 
There  were  apparently  no  white  women  on  the  beach.  But 
later  on,  when  we  inquired  if  there  was  any  one  in  the  place 
who  would  board  Jack  and  me,  Mr.  Kreiech  recommended  a 
Mrs.  Fisher,  and  we  learned  that  besides  herself  there  were 
her  daughter  and  a  niece,  a  French  school  teacher,  and  the 
Sisters  at  the  Mission.  We  were  also  informed  that  fruit, 
eggs,  fowls,  vegetables,  and  nearly  everything  else  that  we 
have  been  hungering  and  thirsting  for,  are  extremely  scarce 
— almost  out  of  the  question,  in  fact.  However,  when  mak- 
ing arrangements  with  Mrs.  Fisher  for  two  meals  a  day,  she 
assured  us  that  good  limes  and  oranges  are  plentiful;  that 
fowls  can  be  had  occasionally,  for  a  reasonable  price ;  that  the 
mangoes  are  beginning  to  ripen,  although  the  breadfruit 
season  is  not  yet;  and  that  cocoanuts  are  abundant. 
There  were  also  hints  of  fresh-water  prawns,  fish,  wild  goat, 
water  cress,  and  tomatoes,  but  no  potatoes — the  last  importa- 
tion from  California  being  exhausted.  Mr.  Edwin  Some- 
body-or-Other  misled  us  by  his  glowing  description  of  the 
lavish  and  automatic  supply  of  everything  edible  in  Nuka- 
Hiva.  There  is  a  French  bakery,  glory  be,  where  crusted 
loaves  are  made  at  frequent  intervals.  This  is  a  welcome 


100  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

surprise — an  excellent  cross  between  French  and  Italian 
bread. 

But  let  no  toddy-thirsting  mariner  be  deceived  as  to  this 
chaste  strand.  Whiskey  is  taboo  in  the  Marquesas,  although 
rum  and  wines  and  absinthe  can  be  purchased  at  the  Societe 
store. 

This  afternoon  we  decided  to  rent  the  only  available  cot- 
tage. Imagine  our  gratification  when  we  learned  that  it  was 
the  old  club-house  where  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  frequently 
dropped  in  during  his  call  at  Taiohae.  In  one  corner  of  the 
large  main  room  is  a  sort  of  stationary  stand,  where  drinks 
used  to  be  mixed.  The  house  is  now  owned  by  the  Societe; 
and  before  promising  it  to  us  on  any  terms,  Mr.  Kreiech  had 
to  negotiate  with  exceeding  deliberation  with  the  native 
couple  who  live  there  as  caretakers.  No  one  here  ever  makes 
the  mistake  of  doing  anything  on  time  or  in  haste,  and  the 
man  who  tries  to  rush  the  natives  is  the  man  lacking  fore- 
sight. But  Mr.  Kreiech  is  evidently  destined  for  success  with 
the  kanakas,  for  the  elderly  pair  are  to  move  into  the  de- 
tached kitchen,  and  we  shall  take  possession  of  the  cottage  to- 
morrow. Jack  and  I  could  easily  in  ten  minutes  move  all 
their  belongings — a  bedstead  and  bedding  and  a  few  gar- 
ments hanging  on  nails;  but  twenty-four  hours  is  not  con- 
sidered too  much  notice  to  allow.  We  saw  these  two  old  per- 
sons at  the  store  at  five  o'clock,  at  which  gala  hour  the  work- 
men gather  on  Saturday  afternoons  to  be  paid  off.  Practi- 
cally the  entire  population  of  the  village  drops  in  socially — a 
pitifully  dwindled  community  in  these  latter  years.  The 
woman  from  our  cottage  is  constantly  attended  by  an 
enormous  puarJca  (hog),  given  her  by  the  captain  of  the 
Norwegian  bark.  She  fondles  it  as  if  it  were  a  beloved  dog — 
although  I  could  not  help  wondering  if  her  affections  were 
not  slightly  gustatory  in  character.  And  we  saw  her  pitch 
viciously  into  a  Norwegian  sailor  who  waxed  too  familiar 
with  her  pet. 

Jack  and  I  sat  on  a  big  drygoods  box  on  the  veranda  of 
the  little  store,  dangling  our  happy  heels  against  the  sides, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE 


101 


and  stared  and  were  stared  at  by '  the '  natives','  While?  "we  • 
munched  and  sucked  some  villainous  striped  candy  that 
Martin  bought.  Here  were  our  first  Marquesans — and  hardly 
a  pure-breed  among  them!  The  blend  is  baffling  in  many 
cases — Spanish,  Portuguese,  German,  French,  Corsican, 
Italian,  English,  American.  One  little  girl  with  snapping 
black  eyes  and  curly  hair  was  pointed  out  as  a  true  Mar- 
quesan  specimen;  but  some  one  contradicted  the  assertion 
with  the  statement  that  her  mother  was  half  Irish.  She  had 
been  " given  away"  as  Hawaiian  children  are  passed  along, 
and  lives  in  terror  of  the  short  temper  and  long  arm  of 
her  adoptive  sire. 

When  these  people  are  displeased  or  contemptuous,  they 
express  their  feelings  mainly  by  writhing  their  mouths  into 
the  most  astonishing  contortions;  and  whenever  our  female 
caretaker  emerged  from  the  crowd,  facing  our  way,  her 
shapely  lips  wore  an  expression  that  led  us  to  believe  she 
was  not  altogether  enthusiastic  about  our  impending  occu- 
pancy of  the  cottage.  She  moved  restlessly  here  and  there, 
attended  by  the  enormous  pink  puarka,  reminding  us  of 
some  one  trying  to  force  an  objectionable  relative  into  society. 
She  has  been  a  beauty,  this  old  aristocrat  of  Nuka-Hiva,  and 
most  persons  might  envy  her  straight  features  and  beautiful 
eyes.  She  wears  the  old-time  tattooing  on  face  and  hands, 
the  latter  looking  as  if  blue-lace  mitted.  The  Marquesans 
were  famed  for  the  fineness  of  their  tattooing. 

The  language  of  smiles  is  efficacious  here  as  in  Hawaii — 
more  so,  in  fact,  for  these  Marquesans  are  far  less  sophisti- 
cated folk  than  the  Hawaiians. 

Walking  from  the  little  wharf  to  the  store  to-day 
on  first  landing,  we  passed  a  building  where  half-naked 
natives  and  Scandinavian  sailors  from  the  bark  were  chop- 
ping copra  (the  dried  meat  of  the  cocoanut)  with  spades, 
preparatory  to  sacking  it  for  export.  Other  natives,  brawny 
fellows  wearing  only  a  red  and  white  loin-cloth  (pareu), 
carried  the  filled  bags  out  through  the  surf  to  a  lighter  which 
was  towed  to  the  bark  by  her  small  boat.  The  men,  chopping 


102  THfl  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

on  -tlie'fiooi* of 'the 'dark' room  piled  high  behind  them  with 
the  copra,  composed  a  striking  picture.  Fair  sailors  and 
dark  natives,  all  shining  with  sweat,  they  bent  to  the  work, 
and  we  would  catch  curious  tattooed  faces  with  savage 
features,  peering  from  out  the  gloom  at  the  strangers.  We 
fell  in  with  the  captain  of  the  bark  while  we  were  looking  on, 
and  he  explained  the  work. 

We  were  immediately  struck,  upon  landing,  with  an 
ominous  narrowness  of  chest  and  stoop  of  shoulders  among  the 
natives,  only  a  few  showing  any  robustness.  And  the  ex- 
planation came  from  moment  to  moment  in  a  dreadful  cough- 
ing that  racks  the  doomed  wretches.  The  little  that  is  left 
of  the  race  is  perishing  and  it  is  not  a  pretty  process.  The 
men  and  women  are  victims  of  asthma,  phthisis,  and  the  sad 
"galloping"  consumption  that  lays  a  man  in  two  months  or 
less — to  say  nothing  of  other  and  unnameable  curses  of  dis- 
ease that  "civilisation"  has  brought.  And  as  for  children- 
there  are  very  few  born  any  more.  A  handful  of  years  have 
made  a  fearful  change  in  the  Marquesas,  the  islanders  going 
down  before  disease  so  rapidly  that  to-day,  for  instance,  only 
nineteen  able-bodied  men  can  be  mustered  in  Taiohae  for 
ship-loading.  It  is  only  the  infusion  of  outlander  blood  that 
holds  the  fading  population  at  all. 

The  women  wear  the  holoku  of  Hawaii — in  Marquesan 
eueu,  in  English  Mother-Hubbard — the  men  being  variously 
habited  in  overalls  with  bright  striped  net  shirts,  or  merely 
in  the  pareu,  a  large  square  of  red,  or  blue,  blotched  with 
bizarre  designs  in  white  or  yellow — an  English  importation. 
Everybody,  of  all  ages  and  both  sexes,  smokes  cigarettes  of 
strong  native  tobacco  rolled  in  a  spiral  of  dried  leaf,  or 
bamboo  strip,  or  cane.  The  women  are  disappointing  as  to 
looks;  but  we  have  to  remember  that  it  is  a  far  cry  to  the 
days  of  Herman  Melville,  who  spoke  of  the  Marquesan  race 
as  being  the  handsomest  and  fairest  of  the  South  Sea 
islanders — that  the  women  would  compare  favourably  with 
"the  beauties  of  Europe."  We  had  a  glimpse  of  the  hus- 
band of  the  old  care-taker,  and  he,  too,  has  the  fine  straight 


I 

I 


. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  103 

nose,  well-sculptured  mouth,  with  large  and  well-set  eyes,  and 
the  marvellous  tattooing.  Mr.  Kreiech  vouches  for  the  pair 
as  being  of  the  purest  Marquesan  aristocracy. 


Taiohae,  Sunday,  December  8,  1907. 

Owing  to  the  requisite  delicacy  in  handling  the  old  couple, 
we  were  obliged  to  sleep  aboard  again  last  night,  and  with 
our  men  returning  from  the  shore  at  all  hours  there  was  not 
much  sleep.  It  was  quite  novel,  for  once,  for  Jack  and  me 
to  be  alone  together  on  the  Snark.  We  spread  a  mattress 
on  deck  and  lay  on  our  backs  looking  up  at  the  sparkling 
stars  and  a  thin  new  moon  that  trembled  on  the  edge  of  the 
sky.  The  warm  tide  rippled  along  the  sides  of  the  boat,  the 
surf  droned  soothingly  in  the  distance,  and  the  balmy  air  was 
filled  with  drifting  scents  of  flowers  and  cocoanuts.  My 
thrumming  ukulele  fretted  the  wild  kids,  and  their  drowsy 
plaints  came  down  from  the  steeps.  Then  the  whole  firma- 
ment was  blotted  out  with  sudden  clouds  and  the  face  of  the 
tropic  night  completely  changed.  I  went  below;  but  Jack 
chanced  it  in  the  life-boat  cover,  and  later  on  I  found  him 
fast  asleep  in  a  pool  of  rainwater. 

Once  up  this  morning  and  the  cobwebs  brushed  out  of  my 
brain,  I  was  glad  of  another  morning  afloat  in  the  incom- 
parable harbour.  We  were  lucky  enough  to  arrive  in  time 
for  a  very  important  event  in  Marquesan  circles.  One 
Taiara  Tamarii,  a  part-Hawaiian  part-Marquesan  familiarly 
called  Tomi,  was  to  hold  a  great  feast  commemorating  the 
first  anniversary  of  his  mother 's  death.  On  such  occasion, 
an  important  ceremony  is  to  erect  a  cross  upon  the  grave. 
But  over  against  this  pious  symbol,  the  feature  of  rarest  in- 
terest is  a  procession  of  the  natives  bringing  in  roasted  pigs 
for  the  feast,  imitating  the  days  not  so  far  gone  when  success- 
ful warriors  returned  with  the  bodies  of  their  vanquished 
foes. 

The  host  himself,  the  huge  and  burly  Tomi,  was  waiting 
when  we  went  ashore,  together  with  Mr.  Kreiech  and  Mr. 


104  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Rahling  and  the  captain  of  the  bark.  We  strolled  along  the 
wide  green  beach  road  (if  road  it  can  be  called  where  never 
rolls  a  wheel),  past  Mrs.  Fisher's  picturesque  tumble-down 
cottage,  on  up  a  gently  rising  stony  trail,  over  brooks  and  by 
scattered  grass  houses  built  on  ancient  pae-paes  described  by 
Melville — high  platforms  of  stones  laid  by  dead  and  gone 
Marquesans.  The  natives  of  to-day  have  neither  the  am- 
bition nor  strength  to  pile  such  masonry,  and  so  they  squat 
upon  the  stages  of  their  forefathers. 

Now  and  again  we  were  overtaken  by  hurrying  natives  who 
had  some  part  to  perform  in  the  festivities  or  who  were 
carrying  articles  for  the  feast.  One  wild-eyed,  strapping 
young  woman,  reckless  with  drink  that  she  had  obtained 
somehow,  attracted  our  attention  by  her  exasperated  attempts 
to  pick  up  a  battered  accordion  that  kept  dropping  out  of 
her  bundle.  Although  she  fell  repeatedly,  any  offer  of  help 
was  fiercely  resisted. 

We  passed  one  hut  before  which  lay  spread  a  half-dozen 
roasted  porkers,  done  to  a  turn  and  awaiting  transportation 
to  the  house  of  Tomi.  Finally  we  came  within  hearing  of  a 
barbaric  rhythmic  harangue  in  a  woman's  high  strong  voice, 
and  were  told  it  was  a  chant  of  welcome,  the  burden  being 
that  the  occasion  was  made  perfect  by  our  presence.  Fol- 
lowing the  wild  sound,  we  turned,  full  of  tingling  curiosity, 
into  an  enclosure  containing  a  spic  and  span  new  cottage 
built  above  a  high  open  basement.  To  the  right,  through 
the  trees,  we  could  see  the  welcoming  chantress — a  swarthy, 
elderly  creature  with  a  certain  lean,  savage  beauty,  ham-wise 
upon  a  corner  of  a  noble  pae-pae  that  supported  a  grass  hut. 
We  were  made  very  much  at  home  by  Tomi  and  his  family, 
who  received  us  in  a  half-shy,  affectionate  way.  His  wife 
had  a  refined,  well-featured  face,  while  his  youngest  daugh- 
ter, a  girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen,  was  a  veritable  beauty  of 
any  time  or  place. 

We  were  soon  out  of  doors  again,  seeing  what  we  could 
see.  Martin  and  I  worked  our  cameras  energetically,  for 
never  was  there  such  incentive.  Behind  the  house  was  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  105 

long  arbour  of  freshly  plaited  palms,  under  which,  upon  the 
ground  spread  with  leaves,  the  natives  were  to  eat  their 
puarka  and  poi-poi.  There  were  mighty  wooden  bowls  of 
this  poi-poi,  which  is  a  thick  and  nutritive  paste  made  from 
breadfruit,  instead  of  from  taro  as  in  Hawaii.  Breadfruit 
poi-poi  is  buried  in  the  ground  for  an  indefinite  period,  that 
used  on  this  occasion  having  been  entombed  for  years.  I 
surreptitiously  poked  my  finger  into  one  grey  mess  in  a  huge 
hand-hewn  calabash,  but  I  did  not  like  the  taste  so  well  as 
the  taro  poi. 

Scores  of  merrymakers  moved  or  sat  about  the  grounds, 
women  gossiping  in  groups  and  inhaling  endless  numbers  of 
cigarettes  of  the  acrid  native  tobacco,  naked  pickaninnies 
tumbling  in  the  grass  or  sucking  sections  of  fresh  young 
cocoanut,  while  to  and  fro  stalked  Tomi's  brothers  carrying 
more  calabashes  of  kao-kao  (food)  on  their  polished  shoulders 
— magnificent  brown  savages  girdled  in  scarlet,  and  over 
these  bright  cinctures  ordinary  leather  belts  in  the  backs  of 
which  were  stuck  murderous  knives. 

Altogether  fourteen  huge  cocoanut-fed  hogs  had  been 
roasted  whole  in  the  ground  among  hot  stones.  These  hogs 
were  laid,  four  or  five  at  a  time,  in  a  savoury  row  near  the 
arbour.  Tomi's  brethren  drew  their  long  knives  with  a 
flourish  and  fell  to  carving  the  steaming  meat,  meanwhile 
surrounded  by  yearning,  sniffing  dogs  of  all  mongrel  breeds 
under  heaven.  As  soon  as  one  lot  was  carved,  another  lot 
was  brought.  The  two  biggest  brothers  willingly  posed  for 
us,  once  bearing  a  greasy  pig  on  a  pole  between  them,  and 
again  with  the  great  wooden  bowls  of  calabashes  upon  their 
glistening  shoulders. 

There  was  a  sudden  alarming  change  in  the  music.  We 
ran  to  the  front  of  the  house,  not  to  miss  anything,  where  an 
old  woman  was  loudly  mouthing  a  rude  and  protracted  cry 
that  was  much  too  sinister  and  menacing  to  be  pretty,  and 
made  creepy  sensations  down  one's  spine.  There  were 
answering  warlike  cries  in  men's  voices  from  a  distance 
among  the  trees.  The  exchanging  calls,  like  tom-toms  and 


106  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

war-drums,  split  the  calm  air ;  weird  and  ghastly  questionings 
seemed  to  be  in  the  voices  of  the  women,  and  incommunicable 
horrors  of  suggestion  in  the  resounding  replies  from  unseen 
bearers  of  victorious  burdens. 

It  was  not  a  long  procession  that  wound  into  view  through 
the  palms  and  twisted  burao  trees  and  past  us  to  the  rear  of 
the  house;  but  it  was  led  by  a  king's  son,  and  as  the  slow, 
ominous  double-file  came  on,  he  repeatedly  turned  to  it  with 
exhorting  vociferations  that  called  forth  a  howling  clamour 
of  assent  to  some  ungodly  proposition.  The  men  carried 
long  leaf -swathed  bundles,  each  bundle  slung  high  on  bamboo 
poles  between  two  bearers.  It  was  comforting  to  be  assured 
that  the  packages  were  only  pig  wrapped  to  resemble  long-pig 
— which  term  is  too  mortuarily  obvious  to  need  explanation. 
But  the  actors  in  the  tragedy  entered  with  such  zest  and  lack 
of  shame  into  the  spirit  of  the  seeming,  that  we  were  led  to 
speculate  upon  how  many  years,  if  left  to  themselves,  it  would 
take  them  to  lapse  into  their  old  habits  of  appetite.  I  hate 
to  spoil  the  vivid,  savage  picture ;  but  the  anachronisms  were 
too  funny  to  leave  out.  For  instance,  one  man  sported  a  top 
hat  above  a  tattered  rag  of  a  calico  shirt ;  several  wore  ludi- 
crous derbys  of  the  low-crowned  "Weary  Willie"  variety, 
and  the  king's  son  (who,  by  the  way,  was  none  other  than 
the  man  who  wanted  a  dollar  a  bunch  for  bananas  the  day 
before),  shone  in  decent  ducks  and  a  native  straw  hat.  But 
we  had  to  be  satisfied,  our  willing  imaginations  eliminating 
the  comedy  and  grasping  the  beauty  of  the  entirety  of  the 
scene,  while  Tomi's  brawny  half -nude  brothers,  carrying  the 
biggest  bundle  of  leaf -wrapped  flesh,  made  up  for  any  dis- 
crepancies. In  spite  of  the  anachronisms  in  costume,  there 
was  a  tremendous  sense  of  unreality  about  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings. 

Upon  the  instant  the  procession  appeared,  several  old 
vahines  began  jumping  stiffly  up  and  down  like  electrified 
mummies,  their  arms  held  rigidly  to  their  shrivelled  sides — 
after  the  manner  of  the  "jumping  widows"  described  by 
Melville — and  emitting  the  most  remarkable  noises  that  ever 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  107 

came  from  human  throats.  This  they  kept  up  during  the 
passing  of  the  procession,  and  it  seemed  that  their  function 
was  to  announce  the  readiness  of  the  feast — not  to  spoil  the 
appetites  of  the  guests,  as  a  fastidious  diner  might  have 
suspected. 

But  no  epicure,  however  outraged,  could  have  quarrelled 
with  the  collation  to  which  we  were  bidden.  There  was  but 
one  disappointment — to  our  sorrow  we  were  specially 
honoured  by  eating  in  the  house,  at  a  table,  with  all  the  im- 
plements of  an  effete  civilisation.  We  bowed  to  the  inevi- 
table, but  with  secret  rebellion  in  view  of  that  palmy  banquet 
outside  on  the  ground. 

Our  dinner  was  course-served  by  the  cook  himself,  a  slim 
Marquesan,  and  he  certainly  was  a  chef  to  remember.  We 
had  fresh-water  shrimps,  big  fellows  tasting  like  New  Eng- 
land lobster;  wild  chicken  (descended  from  the  domestic 
ones  brought  by  old-time  ships)  boiled  in  milk  squeezed  from 
the  meat  of  cocoanuts,  and  delicately  flavoured  with  native 
curry  and  other  spices ;  roast  sucking-pig,  as  fine  and  white  as 
spring  fowl;  for  salad,  they  gave  us  water-cress,  crisp  and 
succulent ;  and  there  were  potatoes,  real  Irish  potatoes,  come 
all  the  way  from  San  Francisco  via  Tahiti,  French-fried  and 
with  a  flavour  of  homesickness.  We  were  not  served  with 
poi-poi,  but  our  old  favourite  the  taro  was  there,  to  my  utter 
gratification.  Absinthe  was  passed  around  before  eating,  and 
California  wine,  white  and  red,  flowed  during  the  meal,  fol- 
lowed by  a  sweet  French  champagne. 

Mrs.  Fisher  and  I  were  the  only  women  at  the  board; 
while  outside  on  the  veranda,  in  fine  white  eueus,  with  their 
black  locks  flower-crowned,  the  more  pampered  of  the  native 
women  had  their  goodies,  unavoidably  reminding  one  of  a 
dusky  harem.  Now  that  I  am  having  a  chance  to  observe,  I 
think  one  might  discover  more  beauty  among  the  women 
here  were  it  not  for  the  shocking  manner  in  which  they  wear 
their  hair,  white  women  as  well  as  natives — brushed  straight 
back  from  the  forehead  and  hanging  in  a  braid  behind. 
Such  a  fashion  is  trying  to  the  most  lovely  face. 


108  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

We  were  a  long  time  at  table,  during  which  there  was  op- 
portunity to  study  the  heterogeneous  company  from  the 
head  of  the  board.  On  my  right,  next  to  Jack,  came  Mrs. 
Fisher,  then  Captain  Warren  and  Martin,  by  whom  sat  the 
ship-carpenter  from  the  bark,  a  huge  grizzled  Scandinavian 
with  bearded  mouth  and  dull  and  introspective  eye — a  Viking 
in  size  and  form,  but  with  all  the  fire  gone  out.  At  the  foot 
of  the  table  was  the  captain  of  the  bark,  a  man  with  nose 
and  mouth  that  deserved  better  eyes  for  company,  a  nose 
severely  Greek,  a  mouth  sensuously  so,  but  the  eyes  just 
ordinary  Scandinavian  blue  eyes,  set  too  near  together  and 
remarkable  for  nothing  but  their  insignificance.  On  my  left, 
next  Mr.  Kreiech,  our  diffident  host,  Tomi,  sat  beside  one  of 
his  eight  brothers,  and  next  following  was  old  Mr.  Goeltz, 
father  of  Mrs.  Fisher.  The  mate  of  the  bark,  a  medium  sized 
young  fellow  with  a  homely,  amorous  face,  came  next  to  Mr. 
Bahling,  who  completed  the  circle. 

Dinner  was  diversified  by  considerable  exercise,  for  we 
must  run  to  the  windows  to  see  the  hula-hulas  of  the  natives, 
who  would  nearly  kill  themselves  laughing  at  the  untrans- 
latable sentiments  of  the  songs.  These  were  accompanied,  of 
all  things,  by  an  accordion,  that  had  a  habit  of  sighing  pro- 
foundly at  the  end  of  each  stanza.  Then  there  was  much 
mirth  and  banter  over  the  swift  sneakings  for  home  of  certain 
men  carrying  large  portions  of  puarka.  It  is  the  custom 
that  each  guest  may  take  home  whatever  of  his  allotment  of 
meat  he  does  not  consume  on  the  spot.  One  furtive  kanaka 
trying  to  get  away  unobserved  with  what  looked  to  be  a 
whole  hog  in  two  sections  slung  each  on  the  end  of  a  bamboo 
pole,  was  detected  and  hooted  out  of  sight.  We  were  told 
that  this  man  always  departed  early  with  all  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on. 

It  was  a  wild  afternoon  that  followed,  dance  upon  dance, 
until  it  became  an  orgy.  The  hula-hula  here  is  largely 
Tahitian,  and  is  faster  and  briefer  and  less  graceful  than 
the  Hawaiian  hula,  while  the  music  has  not  the  charm  of  the 
Hawaiian.  In  fact,  we  heard  only  one  air  to-day,  played  on 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  109 

the  accordion;  and  the  only  virtue  it  had  was  that  it  made 
the  men  and  women  dance.  Everybody  danced,  everybody 
applauded.  Even  I  had  to  join  in  a  waltz  with  the  two 
captains,  much  to  the  amusement  of  the  natives.  Sailors 
from  the  bark  shook  a  leg  or  so  to  keep  the  fun  boiling.  At 
the  height  of  the  prevalent  madness,  the  old  bow-shouldered 
Viking,  who  had  been  gazing  heavy -lidded  and  vacuously  at 
the  scene  with  an  idiotic  expression  on  his  pendant  lip, 
without  warning  sprang  up  like  a  monster  marionette,  and 
crashed  into  the  middle  of  the  suffering  floor  in  a  mighty 
hornpipe.  Pandemonium  broke  loose,  everybody  yelled  and 
screeched  with  delight,  until  the  giant  was  suddenly  smitten 
self-conscious  and  dropped  foolishly  into  his  chair ;  but  later, 
when  Martin,  who  was  having  the  time  of  his  life,  took  a 
whirl  in  the  hula-hula  (with  great  credit  to  himself),  the 
old  man  could  not  hold  still  any  longer.  After  wiggling  his 
great  feet  for  a  little  while,  he  essayed  another  hornpipe,  and 
wound  up  in  an  angular  hula-hula  that  brought  tears  to  our 
eyes.  I  know  I  never  laughed  so  in  my  life.  The  clutter 
of  dogs  in  the  house  greatly  enhanced  the  orgaic  spirit  of 
things.  Jack  and  I  sat  dangling  our  feet  from  the  high 
window-sill,  and  wondered  if  we  knew  where  we  were  this 
time! 

The  windows  opening  on  the  porches  were  crowded  with 
shining  dark  heads  wreathed  in  white  flowers,  and  when  I 
begged  for  a  wreath  I  was  soon  crowned  with  a  fragrant 
circlet  of  tube-roses,  or  such  they  most  nearly  resembled, 
twined  with  glossy  green  leaves. 

But  to  the  natives  the  most  deeply  significant  event  was 
the  photographing  of  Tomi  and  his  family  before  the  impos- 
ing white-painted,  black-decorated  wooden  vault  entombing 
the  dead  mother,  with  the  new  cross  planted  in  front.  It  is 
nothing  out  of  the  way  here  to  inter  the  dead  in  the  house- 
enclosure.  Martin  posed  the  group  and  took  the  picture,  but 
there  was  difficulty  in  getting  all  the  subjects  to  look  serious 
at  the  same  time.  Tomi  wore  not  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  not  he ; 
he  knew  what  was  what.  But  the  majority  of  the  long  line 


110  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

of  relatives  signally  failed  in  gravity,  with  disastrous  results. 

While  this  was  going  on,  the  old  ship-carpenter  awoke 
once  more  from  his  lethargy  and  tried  to  dance  with  the 
women;  but  he  was  evidently  not  accustomed  to  handling 
anything  so  fragile,  and  they  refused  to  dance  more  than  once 
with  an  uncouth  giant  who  stupidly  bruised  their  wrists. 

We  were  somewhat  delayed  in  our  farewells  by  Martin,  who 
at  the  last  moment  engaged  in  a  particularly  brilliant  hula- 
hula  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  men.  At  length  he  was  torn 
unwillingly  away  and  preceded  us  down  the  rocky  path- 
way, a  Bacchanalian  tilt  to  his  leafy  coronet,  a  shoe  in  either 
hand  to  rest  his  feet,  and  a  worshipful  vahine  on  each  arm. 
Jack  also  carried  his  shoes,  which  he  had  taken  off  as  soon  as 
he  reached  Tomi's.  I  kept  mine  on,  although  I  was  not  en- 
tirely happy;  but  the  stones  were  many  and  sharp  and  I 
considered  I  was  choosing  the  lesser  torture.  The  homeward 
walk  included  many  stops  and  rests,  and  it  was  an  intense 
relief  to  strike  the  soft  green  turf  of  the  main  road.  This 
lovely  thoroughfare  is  called  the  Broom  Road,  after  the  drive- 
way so-named  in  Tahiti.  Mrs.  Fisher  says  " Broom  Road" 
means  a  road  which  many  feet  have  brushed  in  passing. 
That  woman  bids  fair  to  be  a  mine  of  interest  and  informa- 
tion, and  we  are  congratulating  ourselves  upon  having  her 
take  us  to  board,  especially  as  she  is  the  only  one  here  who 
can  or  will  do  this. 

We  are  going  to  be  very  happy  in  our  independent  fashion 
in  this  clean  little  house  with  its  big  living-room  and  closet, 
an  ample  veranda  for  sleeping  and  working,  and  best  of  all 
a  concrete  bathing  place  out-of-doors  under  a  shed  connected 
with  our  side  door.  There  is  room  in  the  house  for  the 
Victor  and  all  its  records,  and  word  of  the  talking  machine 
has  already  gone  forth  so  that  there  are  many  peepers  through 
our  vine-clad  fence. 

Monday,  December  9,  1907. 

We  slept  eight  unbroken,  dreamless  hours  last  night  in 
makeshift  beds  on  the  porch — at  least  I  did ;  Jack  never  sleeps 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNABK  111 

without  fantastic  dreaming.  The  quiet  did  not  disturb  us  in 
the  least.  We  were  lulled  by  the  musical  purr  of  the  little 
surf  only  a  few  rods  away,  and  the  patter  of  warm  raindrops 
on  the  banana  leaves  in  our  garden.  But  just  as  we  were 
losing  consciousness,  the  soft  night-sounds  were  rent  by  a 
chorus  of  Gargantuan  laughter — horrible,  raucous,  as  from 
the  throats  of  insane  Titans.  The  splintered  turrets  of  the 
mountains  fairly  reverberated  to  the  astonishing  orgy  of 
noise.  This  morning  we  learned  that  the  goblin  chorus  had 
issued  unaided  from  the  throat  of  a  diminutive  and  entirely 
amiable  jackass  that  grazes  untethered  about  the  village. 

The  air  of  Nuka-Hiva  is  pure  and  sweet,  with  frequent 
showers  that  cool  it  deliciously — and  it  is  certainly  warm; 
but  perspire  as  one  may,  there  is  no  great  discomfort  if  one 
dresses  sensibly.  I  am  going  to  wear  kimonos  and  my 
Hawaiian  holokus,  without  strictures  of  any  sort  in  the  way 
of  belt  or  sash. 

It 's  early  to  bed  and  up  early  in  this  tropic  Elysium,  with 
dejeuner  about  ten  and  dinner  somewhere  around  five. 
There  are  no  stated  hours  for  any  functions  of  living.  So 
before  seven  this  matchless  morning  I  sat  me  down  in  the 
long  grass  under  a  giant-leaved  banana  tree,  with  a  pan  of 
golden-rosy  mangoes  and  a  sharp  knife,  and  plunged  into  the 
preparation  of  a  luscious  breakfast.  Plunged  is  an  excellent 
word,  although  dived  might  be  better,  for  one  cannot  dally 
with  the  gracious  mango  without  getting  pretty  well  up  to 
the  elbows  in  its  squashy  ambrosia.  I  shall  not  tell  how  many 
mangoes  Jack  ate,  nor  how  many  oranges,  nor  how  much 
lemonade  he  drank  in  addition.  Such  oranges !  Except  for 
seedlessness,  the  finest  California  oranges  are  no  better. 

While  Jack  wrote  at  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  big  room, 
I  fussed  about  making  the  cottage  homelike  with  our  be- 
longings, Nakata  watching  me  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
to  learn  points  about  housekeeping,  the  while  he  unpacked 
and  furbished  our  saddlery ;  and  the  sight  of  the  comfortable 
pigskin  Australian  models  made  me  smile  at  the  memory  of 
Mr.  Rahling's  pained  look  when  I  declined  his  kind  offer  of  a 


112  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

side-saddle  on  a  ride  that  Mr.  Kreiech  suggested  for  the  after- 
noon. No  comment  was  made;  but  methinks  I  am  about  to 
learn  that  the  dusky  women  of  this  green  isle  are  still  in  the 
clutch  of  the  feudal  ages. 

At  ten,  Jack  and  I,  both  in  kimonos,  under  a  pongee  para- 
sol, strolled  up  the  green  boulevard,  and  the  cut  of  our 
garments  caused  much  whispering  and  giggling  among  the 
loafers  as  we  passed.  Whatever  Mrs.  Fisher  may  have 
thought,  she  kept  it  to  herself,  and  went  cosily  about  the 
laying  of  a  small  table  in  her  cool  front  room.  But  we  pro- 
tested vigorously  when  we  found  she  had  not  planned  to  sit 
with  us,  for  we  were  looking  forward  to  talking  with  her. 
We  had  our  way  in  the  end;  and  while  we  stowed  away  a 
meal  that  was  an  earnest  of  our  being  well  looked  after  by  her, 
Mrs.  Fisher  told  us  vividly  of  her  life.  She  has  been  in  the 
South  Seas  for  thirty  years,  although  born  in  San  Francisco 
of  German  and  English  parents.  She  married  in  Tahiti  at 
fifteen,  and,  besides  most  of  her  eleven  children,  she  has 
buried  husband  and  mother.  Being  a  keen  observer,  with 
strange  things  to  observe,  she  is  ripe  with  knowledge  of  the 
islands  and  their  inhabitants,  both  white  and  brown.  Weird 
were  some  of  her  tales  of  both  colours.  In  spite  of  a  life 
of  unusual  trouble  and  hardship,  she  is  wonderfully  young 
looking.  She  has  a  striking  profile  and  carriage,  her  rather 
austere  expression  relieved  by  a  pair  of  irresistible  dimples 
when  she  smiles. 

By  noon  we  were  in  the  saddle.  Our  horses  were  small 
black  stallions,  full  of  mischief  from  lack  of  exercise  com- 
bined with  natural  cussedness.  I  was  unwarned,  and  mine 
began  by  variously  rearing  and  kicking  all  over  the  road,  with 
sudden  shying  slides  down  the  banks  to  the  beach,  and  wild 
leaping  runs  over  precarious  foot-bridges  that  spanned  nasty 
gullies.  Thank  goodness  he  did  not  know  how  to  buck.  It 
was  about  the  only  thing  he  did  not  do,  however,  to  get  me 
off ;  but  I  managed  to  stick,  and  at  length  he  decided  that  he 
wanted  to  follow  the  party.  We  fell  into  line,  a  small  but 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK  113 

turbulent  cavalcade,  horses  snorting,  neighing,  kicking,  fight- 
ing, but  sure-footed  as  goats,  and  gentle  of  gait  when  they 
chose  to  have  any  gait.  I  have  read  of  the  surety  of  these 
Marquesan  ponies,  but  the  writers  neglected  to  mention  their 
beauty.  The  original  stock  came  over  from  Chili,  and  has 
bred  true  in  form  and  spirit,  though  not  in  size.  They  are 
firm  bodied,  shapely  beasts,  with  slender  legs,  small  trim 
hoofs,  fine  coats,  and  beautiful  heads.  They  are  also  hardy, 
although  they  do  not  know  hay  and  grain,  and  are  merely 
turned  out  to  forage  in  the  jungle. 

The  object  of  our  ride  was  to  inspect  an  ancient  god  that 
is  doomed  to  voyage  over-seas  in  the  black  hold  of  the  Nor- 
wegian bark,  provided  a  way  can  be  devised  to  transport  it 
through  the  intricate  jungle.  Our  trail  lay  northeast,  and 
imagine  my  delight  when  they  said  this  was  the  way  to 
Typee,  and  that  to-morrow  we  should  start  out  on  the  same 
path  to  the  fabulous  valley.  I  was  too  busy  at  first  with  my 
India-rubber  steed  to  appreciate  our  surroundings;  but 
presently  he  grew  weary  of  tearing  up  the  landscape  to  over- 
take that  merciless  rider,  the  Norwegian  captain,  and  I  was 
able  to  look  about.  On  either  side  of  the  trail,  as  far  as  eye 
could  penetrate,  were  the  splendid  ruins  of  ancient  pae-paes 
terraced  up  the  hillsides  in  tangled  jungle  of  blossoming 
burao  that  strewed  the  earth  with  brown  and  golden  bells. 
(This  is  the  same  tree  as  the  hau  of  Hawaii.)  Some  of  the 
nearer  stone  platforms  carried  most  picturesque  little  grass 
huts ;  but  we  saw  very  few  natives,  probably  because  there  are 
very  few  left  to  see.  It  is  mournful,  all  this  grandeur  of 
wasted  masonry,  left  in  solitude  by  a  wasted  race. 

But  it  was  a  lightsome  forest,  for  all  its  old  associations. 
Sometimes  we  rode  in  a  mist  of  golden  silk-cotton  growing  on 
a  tree  that  is  like  a  delicate  drawing  of  straight  lines  and 
right  angles,  with  scant  and  lacy  foliage  and  bursting  pods 
of  cotton  depending  from  its  cane-like  branches.  Among  the 
burao  trees  we  also  saw  the  lauhala  of  Hawaii,  which  is  like- 
wise used  here  for  hat-plaiting  and  basketry.  There  is  a 


114  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

lack  of  wild-flowers  in  Nuka-Hiva;  indeed,  almost  the  only 
flowers  we  saw  were  those  of  the  ~burao,  and  the  flame- 
coloured  flags  of  the  flamboyants  tree. 

We  tied  our  now  submissive  horses  a  mile  or  so  up  the  trail, 
and  plunged  on  foot  into  the  denser  woods  and  up  among  a 
world  of  moss-grown  pae-paes.  The  stillness  was  intense,  a 
waiting  solitude  that  made  one  listen  and  look  for  the  unex- 
pected. You  could  fancy  faces  and  contorted  limbs  in  every 
gnarled  burao,  or  shadowy  forms  crouched  along  fallen 
mossy  trunks;  and  it  seemed  sacrilege  to  tread  the  springy 
undergrowth,  for  surely  it  had  risen  from  the  dust  of 
forgotten  Druids.  There  was  a  mute  sacredness  in  the  forest 
that  was  in  no  wise  destroyed  when,  after  a  panting  climb,  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  ungodly  idol  that  we  sought,  leaning 
moss-clothed  and  isolate  against  an  old  and  broken  tree. 
And  the  god  was  a  goddess,  after  all — Tataura,  the  rotund 
deity  of  fecundity,  to  whom  childless  brown  women  prayed 
in  the  long  ago. 

Our  dream  was  broken  when  the  German  trader  and  the 
soulless  Norwegian  captain  fell  to  wrangling  over  ways  and 
means  for  transporting  the  quaint  image  to  the  beach,  and 
stuck  their  iconoclastic  knives  into  the  soft  red  stone  to  see 
whether  it  might  not  be  of  a  consistency  for  sawing  to 
advantage.  We  glimpsed  a  stealthy  brown  figure,  almost 
naked,  lurking  near,  watching  the  intruders  into  his  ancestral 
wood,  in  his  eyes  a  blending  of  modern  agnosticism  and  the 
superstition  of  yesterday,  with  a  tinge  of  suspicion  and  regret. 
Jack  and  I  left  the  two  white  men  haggling  over  the  fallen 
immortal,  its  almost  obliterated  heathen  face  seeming  to  grin 
sarcastically.  -We  wandered  down  through  the  twisted 
temple  of  out-doors,  touched  by  the  romantic  hillside  where 
once  lived  a  laughing,  careless  people,  beautiful  to  look  upon 
and  dwelling  in  amity  and  abundance — when  they  were  not 
out  besieging  or  being  besieged  by  the  dwellers  of  other  hill- 
sides and  valleys. 

The  two  men  overtook  us  down  the  trail,  and  on  the  way 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  113 

home  we  turned  off  to  visit  a  mineral  spring  that  supplies 
irreproachable  drinking  water  to  the  fastidious  in  Taiohae. 
Our  caretakers  are  to  keep  us  with  full  jars  at  the  cottage. 
The  captain  forged  ahead  and  tore  through  the  trees,  I  close 
after,  supposing  he  knew  what  he  was  doing — and  he  did, 
but  it  was  not  the  right  thing  to  do.  I  followed  him  over  a 
place  that  I  would  have  disliked  to  attempt  on  foot.  He 
forced  his  poor  horse  down  the  boulders  with  savage  un- 
scrupulousness,  and  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  withdraw, 
although  my  doughty  little  stallion  tried  to  recover  on  the 
brink.  I  was  angry,  and  took  pains  to  explain  the  situation 
to  Mr.  Kreiech  when  he  came  up  on  foot,  having  tied  his 
horse  somewhere  like  a  sane  man.  Jack  had  been  drawn 
over  that  boulder  as  I  had  been,  and  neither  of  us  wanted 
Mr.  Kreiech  to  think  we  were  accustomed  to  abusing  horses. 
Of  course  we  had  to  claw  out  the  way  we  descended,  for 
there  was  no  other  way. 

At  the  spring,  the  water  of  which  had  a  pleasant  mineral 
tang,  we  were  treated  also  to  a  draught  from  cocoanuts  which 
a  native  opened  with  his  long  knife.  These  Marquesan  cocoa- 
nuts  are  much  superior  to  the  Hawaiian  ones  in  sweetness 
and  richness  of  water  and  meat.  They  are  picked  young  and 
full  of  the  delicate-flavoured  water,  and  the  delicious  meat 
is  soft  enough  to  eat  with  a  spoon. 

On  the  home  stretch  the  irrepressible  Norwegian  raised 
general  havoc  in  our  ranks  by  wickedly  whooping  by  down- 
hill, and  Jack's  small  stallion  promptly  bolted.  Mine  took 
after  him  in  turn,  and  I  could  only  trust  to  his  tiny  nimble 
feet,  for  there  was  no  checking  him.  So  I  made  the  most  of 
the  mad  descent,  which  was  exhilarating  if  risky.  By  the 
time  we  drew  up  at  Mrs.  Fisher's  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Jack's 
saddle  was  on  his  horse's  neck,  and  it  was  a  mercy  the  horse 
was  not  overbalanced  to  a  fall. 

.  .  .  Such  an  appetite !  And  what  a  dinner !  Mrs.  Fisher 
has  engaged  as  cook  the  man  who  set  the  feast  at  Tomi  's  yes- 
terday, and  he  seasons  his  dishes  most  toothsomely.  There  is 


116  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

a  combination  of  fine  French  cuisine  and  native  cookery  that 
keeps  us  hungry  to  the  end  and  looking  forward  to  the  next 
meal. 

We  asked  Mrs.  Fisher  and  her  household  down  to  hear  the 
phonograph  in  the  evening,  and  passed  the  word  along  to 
others  as  we  leisured  on  foot  back  to  the  old  clubhouse. 
They  turned  out  in  force,  flocking  to  our  garden  with  smiles 
and  bashful  laughter,  then  disposing  themselves  here  and 
there,  sitting  or  standing  around  on  the  grass  inside  the  gate, 
as  well  as  on  the  broad  green  beyond,  while  some  crowded  on 
the  porch  where  Jack  was  working  the  Victor.  The  women 
were  nearly  all  in  white,  the  men  in  ordinary  suits  of  white 
duck  or  blue  drilling,  or  in  brilliant  pareus.  I  wore  a  holoku, 
which  pleased  the  women ;  and  I  went  among  them  and  tried 
to  make  them  feel  at  ease,  for  they  were  very  diffident  with 
me  at  first.  I,  too,  sat  in  the  grass,  laughing  with  them  and 
trying  to  learn  their  words — one,  in  particular,  maitai,  mean- 
ing good,  being  worked  most  successfully  in  a  hundred  con- 
notations. And  they  in  turn  put  fragrant  wreaths  of  rich 
white  flowers  about  my  neck  and  upon  my  head,  patting  my 
hands  and  smiling  appreciatively  like  lovable  children. — 
Poor  things!  Over  and  under  and  all  about  their  mirth- 
making  is  the  coughing,  coughing,  a  running  accompaniment 
to  everything  they  do;  and  they  continually  soothe  their 
racked  lungs  with  the  strong  native  tobacco. 

Roaming  among  our  guests  outside  the  gate,  I  found  lying 
under  a  flamboyante  tree  in  the  moonlight  an  old  Corsican 
beachcomber  with  white  hair  and  beard.  He  would  not  come 
inside,  indicating  that  he  could  enjoy  the  music  better  where 
he  was.  How  did  he  happen  to  come  to  this  place,  and,  more 
remarkable,  why  did  he  stay  on  ?  I  wonder  what  his  thoughts 
were,  listening  to  music  from  the  outer  world,  there  in  the 
short  grass  under  the  flamboyante  tree  in  the  moonshine. 
Some  one  has  whispered  leprosy.  This  may  explain  him. 

The  men  proved  better  listeners  than  the  women,  who, 
after  their  first  curiosity  about  the  "man  in  the  box"  had 
worn  off,  fell  to  chattering,  chattering,  till  even  Sousa  's  baton 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  117 

could  not  command  clamour  enough  to  drown  them.  Once 
in  a  while  some  kanaka,  interrupted  in  his  own  racket  by  the 
superior  clatter  of  the  vahines,  by  hissing  loudly  restored  a 
brief  general  silence. 

And  all  the  time,  out  on  the  bay,  fairy-like  in  the  moon- 
shine floated  the  quaint  old  grey  bark  with  her  painted  ports, 
and  the  tiny  white-speck  boat  that  brought  us  to  this  lovely 
isle — four  thousand  miles  to  cover  a  twenty-one  hundred  mile 
course.  But  she  did  it !  she  did  it !  And  there  she  lies  these 
pleasant  days,  resting  until  she  is  called  upon  to  bear  us  on 
over  the  purple  seas,  through  the  pearl  lagoons  of  the  Dan- 
gerous Archipelago,  to  Tahiti — Papeete,  the  "  Paris  of  the 
Pacific/'  on,  on,  endlessly,  the  receding  horizon  our  goal.  It 
is  all  wonderful  and  unreal,  here  in  the  midst  of  it ;  and  my 
heart  is  full  of  marvel  at  the  beauty  of  life,  my  life,  although 
at  my  pitying  feet  in  the  grass  the  poor  fading  creatures  of 
this  fair  land  lie  coughing  their  lives  away,  pathetic  aliens 
of  no  true  race,  waifs  of  the  drift  of  many  and  incongruous 
bloods. 

Against  our  door-post  an  old  tattooed  savage  leans,  squat- 
ting on  the  floor,  his  eyes  dumbly  agog  at  the  talking-machine ; 
in  front  of  him,  chin  in  hands,  sits  a  degenerate  of  French- 
Marquesan  stock,  with  a  fine  and  delicate  face  marred  by  a 
look  of  concentrated  foolishness  in  the  great  brown  eyes. 
Mrs.  Fisher  sits  straight  and  white  and  still,  eyes  fixed  and 
far-dreaming,  while  on  her  long-tried  knees  sleeps  a  grand- 
child. And  woven  into  the  picture  is  a  score  or  so  of  dogs, 
more  oddly-bred  than  the  people  who  tolerate  them  and  cuff 
them  by  turns.  Some  departed  Great  Dane  has  left  his 
gold-striped  coat  stretched  upon  many  a  strange  frame,  and 
the  lineaments  of  a  pug-dog  mock  at  one  from  the  shoulders 
of  a  hound  sans  pedigree. 

...  At  a  little  after  ten  we  told  our  friends  "pan,"  which 
is  current  here  as  in  Hawaii  to  express  the  end,  the  finish, 
and,  to  the  blare  of  La  Marseillaise,  the  men  and  women 
trooped  away  singing. 

Then  a  great  black  cloud  rose  from  behind  the  mountain 


118  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

and  covered  the  moon ;  and  in  the  darkness  we  found  the  way 
under  our  lacy  canopies  of  mosquito  netting,  and  drowsed  off 
to  the  staccato  of  big  rain-drops  on  giant  banana-leaves,  to 
dream  of  Typee  Vai  on  the  morrow. 

December  10,  1907. 

The  plan  had  been  to  get  away  at  five  for  Typee,  but  when 
that  birdlike  hour  dawned  it  seemed  that  Jack  and  I  were 
the  only  ones  who  had  taken  it  seriously.  No  one  else  had 
made  any  preparation.  We  got  away  at  half -past  ten.  But 
it  did  not  matter — nothing  matters  in  this  leisure-land. 

There  were  six  besides  ourselves — Captain  Warren,  Mar- 
tin, and  the  Norwegian  skipper  with  two  native  girls  he  had 
asked  to  bring.  And  last,  and  very  important,  was  Nikko, 
an  Easter  Islander  whom  Jack  had  engaged  as  guide.  The 
Norwegian  had  offered,  as  he  had  once  before  made  the  trip ; 
but  we  preferred  a  resident  of  Nuka-Hiva,  and  Nikko  knows 
his  adoptive  island  thoroughly. 

With  my  husband's  entire  approval  I  had  concluded,  in 
view  of  a  hard  ride  through  all  sorts  of  country  on  a  skittish 
horse,  to  discard  skirts  altogether;  so  I  sallied  forth  booted 
and  spurred  and  in  khaki  riding  breeks — of  course  to  find  the 
native  girls,  arrayed  in  voluminous  eueus,  lounging  in  roomy 
side-saddles.  Take  my  word  for  it  that  they  betrayed  more 
surprise  and  disapproval  than  I  did. 

The  bark  captain  had  the  ride  very  much  to  himself, 
because  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  no  consideration  for  a 
horse,  albeit  his  was  a  fine  animal,  borrowed  at  that,  from  one 
of  the  women.  The  rest  of  us  struck  a  humane  pace  and 
stuck  to  it,  while  he  raced  over  the  rocks  regardless  of  rise 
or  declivity,  his  poor  brute  dripping  rivers  and  quivering 
with  exhaustion. 

I  rode  my  little  stallion  Jacques,  and  Jack's  mount  was  a 
sure-footed  1 1  buckskin ' '  gelding.  Martin,  had  he  but  thought 
of  it,  might  have  assisted  his  tiny  bay  mare  with  his  own 
long  legs,  for  they  could  easily  touch  the  ground.  But  Cap- 
tain Warren's  close-knit  figure  just  suited  the  stocky,  wicked 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  119 

little  stallion  that  had  been  allotted  him.  It  set  its  will 
against  his  at  the  start,  but  the  stern- jawed  mariner  prevailed 
through  a  course  of  cajolery,  heeling,  and  thrashing.  Jack 
and  I  laughed  ourselves  weak  during  the  first  half  hour. 

The  morning  was  fresh  and  sparkling,  but  the  sun,  touch- 
ing the  purple  peak-tips  with  gilt,  soon  let  loose  its  whole 
golden  flood  into  the  valley,  and  we  were  glad  of  a  cool  breeze 
to  the  summit.  Such  a  gallery  of  incomparable  pictures! 
First,  the  beach  with  its  frilly  surf,  the  vessels  rocking  in  the 
wind-crisped  water  beyond,  and  yet  beyond  the  blue  flashing 
sea.  Then  the  coloured  palisades  about  the  bay,  sprayed  with 
rainbows  from  little  waterfalls  born  of  a  night's  rain.  On 
the  landward  side  we  were  greeted  by  palm-vignetted  sketches 
— here  a  warm-brown  grass  hut  with  its  warm-brown  dwellers 
smiling  kaoha  to  us  as  we  swept  by;  or  the  old  grey- white 
mission  with  its  peaceful  garden  where  a  cowled  priest  tended 
his  flowers ;  and  we  passed  the  ha'e  (house)  of  the  dead  Queen 
Vaeheku,  spacious  and  imposing  by  contrast  with  the  dwell- 
ings along  the  Broom  Road.  Then  we  plunged  into  the 
wooded  trail  where  opened  ferny  vistas  and  the  golden  cotton 
brushed  our  faces  with  morning  dew.  It  was  familiar  going 
for  a  time,  with  a  memory  of  the  forsaken  red  goddess  in  the 
enchanted  forest;  but  presently  we  were  beyond  our  ken 
and  following  our  guide  up-mountain — a  mile  behind  the 
flying  Norseman  and  his  unfortunate  charger. 

We  crossed  shady  streams  and  drank  deep  while  the  horses 
breathed,  and  ever  we  fought  our  way  up,  until  we  came  out 
upon  a  rocky  ridge  and  turned  to  look  back  upon  one  of  the 
loveliest  visions  in  the  world.  Such  green,  such  unbroken 
emerald  verdure — the  valley  a  great  round  green-lined  nest, 
dotted  with  feather  of  cocoanut ;  with  little  white  birds,  two 
by  two,  floating  dreamily  in  the  void.  The  sides  of  the  nest, 
the  wonderful  mountains,  shimmered  in  a  tinted  mist,  and 
far  down  in  the  silver  horse-shoe  of  the  bay  the  boats  lay 
tiny  and  toy-like.  As  in  a  chart  spread  out  before  us,  we  saw 
the  twin  Sentinels,  and  lying  mistily  on  the  horizon  the 
violet  islands  of  Uapo  and  Hiva-oa — ''Yonder  Far."  We 


120  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

could  even  glimpse  the  ragged  edges  of  the  western  wall  of 
Comptroller  Bay.  This  reminded  us  of  our  objective,  and 
we  turned  once  more  to  the  ascent.  Just  as  the  encircling 
walls  of  the  valley  below  looked  too  diaphanous  to  be  real 
in  the  blowing  blue  vapours,  so  even  the  perpendicular  cliffs 
close  at  hand  looked  unreal.  This  magic  atmosphere  idealises 
everything,  far  and  near. 

Our  last  pull  out  of  Taiohae  Valley  was  on  a  zigzag  trail, 
some  sections  of  which  were  narrow  and  steep  enough  to  re- 
call the  Molokai  pali,  and  we  rested  the  horses  frequently  and 
enjoyed  the  ever-widening  panorama  growing  beneath. 
Much  of  the  trail  was  smothered  in  a  slender  though  sturdy 
cane-growth,  and  we  were  warned  not  to  cut  ourselves  on  the 
green  blades.  This  must  be  the  cane  that  so  discouraged  Mel- 
ville and  Toby  in  their  flight  from  the  Dolly.  The  bank  on 
the  upper  side  was  mossy  and  a-wave  with  familiar  ferns,  one 
variety  resembling  the  stag-horn  of  Maui  in  Hawaii,  al- 
though without  its  vicious  thorny  attributes.  We  saw  a  ripe 
guava,  just  one,  and  that  was  hollowed  out  by  bird  or  rat. 
There  was  an  abundance  of  guava-scrub,  but  the  fruit  season 
is  young.  On  the  top  of  a  bank  level  with  our  eyes,  we  found 
a  Liliputian  wild  passion  vine  bearing  the  most  fragile 
lavender  blossoms,  miniatures  of  those  we  know  at  home. 

The  whole  land  was  solidly  green,  valleys  and  glens,  moun- 
tainsides and  summits,  broken  only  by  chance  scarry  cliffs 
upon  the  bald  faces  of  which  clung  desperate  contorted  palms. 

We  peered  ghoulishly  at  a  huge  rocky  funeral-crag  near 
the  divide,  where  corpses,  embalmed  so  that  even  the  eyeballs 
remain  intact,  are  said  to  be  hidden.  Shall  I  ever  be  able  to 
explore  such  a  place  ?  I  let  my  opportunity  slip  at.  Keala- 
kekua  Bay,  Hawaii  (where  Captain  Cook  died),  because  they 
said  the  sun  was  too  hot  for  me  to  climb  the  face  of  the  tomb- 
honeycombed  cliff.  And  there's  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance 
on  Nuka-Hiva.  It  has  been  tried,  with  most  unsatisfactory 
results,  by  some  of  the  white  residents  here  in  times  gone  by. 
They  could  not  get  even  a  whiff,  so  to  say,  of  their  loathsome 
quarry.  The  native  carrying  their  camping  things  became 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  121 

suspicious,  found  some  significant  tools  in  the  outfit,  and  re- 
fused flatly  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  expedition.  And 
of  course  he  didn't  keep  still  about  his  find;  so  that  ever 
since  it  has  been  considered  unhealthful  by  the  whites  to 
make  any  attempt  to  scale  the  frowning  monument. 

We  now  emerged  upon  more  or  less  of  a  table-land,  and 
galloped  along  high  breezy  ridges  from  which  fell  away  on 
either  hand  a  world  of  hills  and  wild  fruitful  valleys ;  while 
ahead,  beyond  the  last  ridge,  rose  the  farther  wall  of  Typee. 
A  little  way  on  we  discovered  that  we  were  at  the  very  head 
of  Hapaa  Valley,  whose  inhabitants  were  the  fiercest  enemies 
of  the  Typeans  in  Melville's  time.  To-day  the  green  gloom 
of  the  deep  pocket  is  unbroken  by  hut  or  smoke  or  human 
form.  Not  one  man  is  left  to  point  out  past  glory  of  con- 
quest nor  triumphant  feast  of  pale,  grim  long-pig.  Melville 
spelled  it  Happar,  and  the  spelling  of  Typee  should  rightly 
be  Taipi;  but  Typee  it  will  always  remain  for  the  wander- 
luster. 

To  make  our  travelling  more  perfect,  the  sky  had  some- 
what overcast,  and  just  enough  sun  broke  through  at  inter- 
vals to  throw  lavish  swaths  of  light  and  shadow  across  the 
tremendous  landscape,  while  we  went  in  cool  comfort. 

When  Nikko  pointed  out  the  head  of  Typee  Vai  far  to  our 
left,  my  sensations  were  all  I  could  wish.  There  in  the  midst 
of  stern  mountain  bulks,  black  in  the  shadow,  just  where  the 
deserters  sixty  years  ago  perilously  let  themselves  down  into 
the  valley,  was  the  waterfall  described  by  Melville — a  dis- 
tant shaft  of  purest  white,  still  as  a  pillar  of  marble.  And 
very  likely  the  long,  embowered  pathway  down  which  we 
gained  the  floor  of  the  valley  is  the  very  one  by  which  Toby 
escaped  from  the  man-eating  tribe. 

Near  the  head  of  the  valley  we  could  see  the  white  welt  of 
the  trail  to  Hatiheu  angling  up  ravines  and  erosions.  One 
of  our  native  girls  came  from  Hatiheu,  granddaughter  of  a 
chief,  and  part  French.  She  is  an  indolent,  insolent-eyed 
creature,  and  as  neither  she  nor  the  other  girl  seemed  in- 
clined to  be  sociable,  we  soon  left  them  to  themselves. 


122  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

The  only  other  striking  feature  on  the  opposite  wall  of 
Typee  was  a  sloping  enclosure  of  several  acres,  overcrowded 
to  bursting  with  breadfruit  and  cocoanut.  The  walls  looked 
to  be  of  piled  stone,  and  we  could  not  doubt  that  this  was 
one  of  the  walled  groves  made  so  much  of  by  Melville. 

And  the  valley  itself — one  cannot  be  surprised  that  its 
olden  visitor  thought  it  extraordinary  and  had  no  words  to 
tell  of  its  extreme  loveliness.  Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains it  rests,  an  inexpressible  wilderness  of  greenest  green, 
threaded  by  a  beautiful  river  fed  by  cataracts  at  its  magnifi- 
cent scowling  head.  The  mountains  of  Nuka-Hiva  are  not 
very  high,  but  have  all  the  character  of  greater  mountains 
and  make  grand  effects  among  the  shifting,  tumbling  cloud- 
masses.  The  length  of  Typee  I  should  judge  to  be  about 
seven  or  eight  miles  by  two  broad,  and  the  valley  opens  into 
nothing  less  lovely  than  the  bay  of  its  own  name,  the  mid- 
most of  the  three  arms  of  Comptroller  Bay. 

Melville  saw  much  of  Typee  blossoming  and  fruiting 
abundantly  under  savage  cultivation ;  but  I  cannot  think  the 
general  view  is  any  less  overwhelming  in  our  day,  with  its 
mad  riot  of  vegetation.  It  is  when  one  walks  in  the  old 
paths  and  comes  close  to  Typee  that  the  change  hurts.  It  is 
as  if  a  curse  had  fallen  upon  it — spreading  over  it  a  choked 
jungle  of  burao,  damp  and  unwholesome,  on  the  edges  of 
which,  near  the  river,  unkempt  grass  houses  stand  upon  the 
lordly  pae-paes  of  decayed  affluence. 

And  the  people !  Where  are  the  beautiful  women  and  the 
splendid  men  who  loved  so  sweetly  in  their  happy  land? 
Look  for  them  you  must — for  Fayaway  and  her  maidens, 
clad  in  white  tapa  cloth;  but  what  you  see  is  a  wretched 
thing  dragging  toward  you  in  bedraggled  calico,  her  face 
discoloured  and  blotched  with  leprosy,  her  very  existence  a 
shame  to  mankind  and  the  sun. 

Melville  estimated  some  two  thousand  warriors  in  Typee 
Vai;  now  there  are  perhaps  a  dozen  vilely-bred  men  and 
women  whose  cross-strains  alone  have  kept  them  alive,  de- 
clining as  they  are  in  disease  and  misery. 


Human  Hair  Dancing  Dress,  Turtle  Crown,  and  Old  Men's  Beards 


The  Nature  Man  in   Street  Costume 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  123 

We  unsaddled  and  tied  our  horses  by  an  ancient  stone 
enclosure,  and  Nikko  carried  the  lunch  down  by  the  river. 
We  came  to  our  first  case  of  elephantiasis  in  a  hideously 
deformed  young  native  with  a  face  smacking  strongly  of 
Chinese.  He  brought  us  cocoanuts  for  our  lunch,  and  for 
which  we  paid  him.  His  feet  were  literally  elephantine — 
the  leg  swelled  until  the  toes  were  no  more  conspicuous  than 
those  of  an  elephant.  The  man  wore  a  deprecatory  ex- 
pression, as  if  he  would  apologise  for  his  unlovely  exist- 
ence. 

We  were  extremely  annoyed,  as  we  sat  under  the  trees  by 
the  stream,  by  myriads  of  the  diminutive  black  flies,  called 
nau-nau  (pronounced  now-now),  that  have  bothered  us  some- 
what in  Taiohae.  Mrs.  Fisher  had  warned  us  against  allow- 
ing them  to  sting  us,  as  the  bites,  after  lying  dormant  for 
days,  almost  invariably  fester  and  continue  to  fester.  She 
urged  me  to  wear  long  sleeves  and  gloves.  To-day  the  pests 
settled  in  clouds,  getting  into  the  food  and  robbing  us  of 
peace.  Later  on,  when  Jack  and  I  took  a  swim  in  a  pool  of 
the  river,  which  we  tried  to  think  was  ' '  Fayaway  's  lake, ' '  we 
were  obliged  to  keep  under  water  to  escape  the  flies;  and 
when  poor  Jack,  going  out  first,  essayed  to  dress  on  the  bank, 
he  was  beset  by  such  numbers  that  he  was  beside  himself, 
and  his  language  not  at  all  pretty.  I  placidly  treaded  water 
and  chaffed  up  at  him  from  my  comfortable  seclusion.  But 
he  got  back  at  me.  When  /  tried  to  clothe  myself,  omitting 
all  towelling  for  the  sake  of  speed,  the  vengeful  man  stood 
by  and  made  remarks  when  I  went  quite,  quite  mad  in  my 
efforts  to  get  things  on  without  imprisoning  the  clinging  tor- 
mentors. Perhaps  I  deserved  my  punishment ;  but  he  needn  't 
have  been  quite  so  mean ! 

After  lunch  I  remembered  my  promise  to  myself  that,  once 
I  was  on  the  spot,  I  was  going  to  people  Typee  Vai  to  suit 
my  imagination.  So  I  stole  away  up  the  hillside,  past  an 
immense  pae-pae  bearing  a  filthy  hut,  and  struck  a  damp 
pathway  that  led  into  the  burao  thicket.  I  walked  on  and 
on,  but  the  trail  seemed  to  lead  nowhere,  so  I  gave  up  and 


124  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

retraced.  This  moist,  unholy  jungle  has  possessed  the  land. 
I  saw  nothing  of  special  human  interest  except  a  big  mossy 
stone  that  gazed  dimly  sphinx-like  out  of  what  may  have  once 
upon  a  time  been  pictured  eyes. 

Baffled,  I  tried  the  up-river  path.  This  was  better — 
really  exquisite  in  fact.  The  way  was  smothered  in  sunny 
trees  and  shrubbery  and  the  most  alluring  little  pathlets 
tempted  away  from  the  riverside  into  a  happy  tangle  of 
growing  things.  One  could  easily  imagine  a  phantom  Fay- 
away  playing  there  at  hide-and-seek.  I  saw  a  ripe  warm 
orange  lying  under  its  tree,  and  pounced  upon  it,  catching 
at  the  idea  of  having  one  golden  apple  out  of  the  lost  Eden. 
It  was  a  capital  orange,  too,  even  if  hot.  There  was  another 
ruddy  ball  on  the  slender  tree,  but  I  let  it  hang.  I  wan- 
dered on  in  the  steaming  tropic  air,  under  the  blue  flame 
of  the  noonday  sky,  and  found  the  going  fair  and  my  dream 
good.  The  valley  rang  with  bird-calls,  although  Melville 
made  a  point  of  the  absence  of  birds,  and  they  must  have  been 
imported  later  on — along  with  the  nau-nau! 

Jack  was  asleep  under  a  tree  upon  my  return.  Before 
long  we  were  in  the  saddle  again,  with  only  one  horse-fight 
to  mark  our  departure.  After  I  had  mounted,  my  coal- 
black  steed  rose  to  his  full  height  per  hind  legs,  and  de- 
scended upon  the  mounted  Scandinavian,  raising  a  consider- 
able lump  on  the  man's  knee.  Then  we  started  back  the 
way  we  had  come,  but,  instead  of  crossing  the  river  to  the 
home-trail,  kept  to  the  left,  galloping  through  a  grove  of 
the  biggest  banana  trees  we  have  ever  seen.  A  scant  hand- 
ful of  natives  peeped  apishly  at  us  from  under  the  giant 
leaves.  Climbing  to  a  pass  leading  out  of  Typee,  we  gazed 
down  upon  the  tan  beach  where  Melville  escaped  to  the 
ship 's  boat.  Two  men  were  fishing  in  the  river  where  it  met 
the  bay,  and  we  caught  the  gleam  of  their  silver  quarry  lying 
on  the  sand. 

Now  came  a  joyful  surprise.  Typee  had  depressed  us 
with  its  desolation;  but  here,  the  other  side  of  a  low  hill, 
we  dropped  into  a  little  vale  that  looked  more  as  Typee 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  125 

must  have  in  her  hey-day.  This  was  Hooumi  Valley  (pro- 
nounced Ho-o-oo-me).  Melville  never  mentioned  it  in  his 
book,  and,  since  he  was  zealously  guarded  from  approach- 
ing the  mouth  of  his  own  valley,  undoubtedly  knew  nothing 
of  it.  Still,  judging  from  the  accessibility  and  smallness  of 
Hooumi,  its  people  must  have  been  counted  among  the 
Typeans,  for  such  a  small  contingent  could  not  have  held 
out  against  the  powerful  valley  proper.  Melville  probably 
saw  the  people  of  Hooumi  among  the  others,  and  included 
them  in  his  two-thousand  estimate,  while  ignorant  of  their 
actual  headquarters. 

It  is  a  bit  of  aboriginal  fairyland,  this  Hooumi.  We 
raced  along,  following  the  windings  of  its  blue  stream,  many 
a  turn  taking  our  breath  away  with  the  beauty  it  unrolled. 
The  prospect  was  one  of  plenty,  the  "  profitable  trees, " 
breadfruit,  bananas,  cocoanuts  and  the  like,  growing  pro- 
fusely on  every  hand.  The  breadfruit  is  magnificent,  re- 
minding one  of  the  jewelled  trees  in  the  story  of  Aladdin, 
for  the  very  leaves,  broad  and  indented,  glisten  like  polished 
gems,  while  the  large  fruit,  sometimes  round,  sometimes  oval, 
is  studded  with  emerald  knobs. 

Once  we  rounded  a  broad  bend,  where  a  healthy,  hearty 
savage,  gleaming  like  copper  in  the  westering  flames,  fished 
ankle-deep  in  pebbly  shallows;  again,  we  came  upon  a  still 
elbow  of  the  stream  in  which  a  perfect  grass  hut,  with  all  its 
trees  and  background  of  wooded  hill,  was  reflected ;  or  there 
flashed  upon  us  a  straight  stretch  of  road,  striped  with  tree- 
shadows,  and  opening  up  the  lofty  shoulder  of  a  jagged 
crag,  tipped  with  sungold;  and  once  I  drew  up  abruptly, 
having  almost  missed,  in  sheer  enjoyment  of  my  horse,  one 
of  the  prettiest  sights  in  the  valley — a  particularly  well  pre- 
served pae-pae  by  the  roadside,  supporting  a  ruined  grass 
house  shaded  by  three  plumy  palms  of  varying  heights  and 
angles,  and  one  justly  proportioned  breadfruit  tree  that 
laid  its  purple  shadow  distinctly  upon  the  tessellated  plat- 
form. A  grass  hut  is  the  very  quintessence  of  savage  pic- 
turesqueness. 


126  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

We  fetched  up  at  the  mouth  of  the  valley  in  a  little  vil- 
lage of  native  huts  and  one  small  frame  house  built  on  a 
modern  pae-pae  in  a  grassy  enclosure.  It  might  have  been 
more  romantic  for  us  to  put  up  in  native  fashion;  but  we 
were  quite  willing  to  forego  that  pleasure  and  accept  Nikko  's 
arrangements,  what  of  our  aversion  to  centipedes  and  such 
things — although,  if  grass  house  it  had  been,  well  and  good. 
One's  lust  for  the  outlandish  chills  somewhat  in  face  of 
sharing  bed  and  board  with  unpleasant  crawling  vermin  of 
elongated  aspect  and  with  bites  up  their  sleeves. 

Upon  riding  into  the  yard,  Jack  and  I  were  entirely 
absorbed  in  a  young  man  who  moved  about  as  one  in  posses- 
sion, without  affectation,  and  with  a  dazzling  smile  in  mouth 
and  eyes  whenever  he  met  our  gaze.  His  face  was  not  hand- 
some, except  as  his  ready  smile  made  it  so ;  it  was  the  body 
of  him  that  stayed  the  eye  with  its  complete  symmetry  of 
line  and  proportion.  And  more  than  beauty  of  form  was 
the  carriage  of  it — never  did  a  Prince  Charming  bear  him- 
self with  more  regal  grace.  With  all  his  thewy  masculinity 
there  was  a  flowing  softness  of  line  and  motion  that  led 
away  from  any  thought  of  iron  muscle;  but  later  on,  when 
he  jack-knived  himself  up  a  cocoanut  palm  that  our  sailor- 
eyed  men  pronounced  all  of  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet 
high,  we  saw  the  steel  sinews  of  him,  the  deep  lungs,  and 
the  control.  It  was  an  astonishing  thing  he  did:  merely 
walked  up  that  swaying  column  on  all-fours,  and  descended 
similarly,  backward;  and  when  he  reached  the  ground  and 
walked  past  us  with  his  inimitable  port,  he  was  only  breath- 
ing quickly,  as  a  man  after  a  short  run  might  do.  Now  1 
come  to  think  of  it,  he  was  the  only  being  in  the  village 
whom  we  did  not  hear  cough. 

It  seemed  ill  fitting  to  offer  a  young  god  from  Olympus  a 
franc  for  braving  a  mere  cocoanut  palm ;  for  one  grows  used 
to  such  irregularities  of  circumstance,  although  I  must  not 
forget  that  this  royal-bodied  youth  did  not  even  look  toward 
us  for  approval  or  for  the  money  that  had  been  promised. 
He  approached  only  when  bidden,  naked  in  his  perfection 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  127 

save  for  a  scarlet  cloth,  and  received  double  the  prize  with 
the  manner  of  a  victor  in  the  athletic  field  taking  his  re- 
ward as  his  due  and  no  more,  pleasantly  without  servility. 
Indeed,  he  did  not  even  look  at  the  coins  in  his  hand  until 
he  had  swung  with  leisurely  dignity  across  the  green  to 
where  the  cooks  were  busy,  and  there  we  saw  him  laugh  like 
a  pleased  boy  while  the  men  congratulated.  Later  on,  this 
Marquesan  Adonis  was  fairly  commonplace  in  blue  overalls 
and  a  net  shirt;  but  he  could  not  disguise  walk  or  smile, 
and  whenever  he  appeared,  Jack  and  I  followed  with  our 
eyes.  You  see,  he  meant  old  Typee  to  us,  for  he  was  neither 
half-caste,  nor  sick.  Excepting  the  fisherman  in  the  stream, 
he  was  the  only  specimen  we  saw  who  approximated  the 
Typean  of  Melville  and  the  other  old  chroniclers. 

Everything  in  the  neighbourhood  was  in  a  bustle  over 
our  feasting  and  lodgment.  A  dozen  men  were  preparing 
kao-kao  in  a  large  half-open  shed  in  which  we  saw  a  reminis- 
cent wooden  trencher  the  length  of  a  man,  and  wondered  if 
there  was  a  resident  in  the  village  old  enough  to  remember 
its  grisly  use;  while  other  men  dug  a  shallow  pit  in  which 
the  sucking  puarka  was  to  be  roasted  whole,  and  Adonis  went 
about  the  preparing  of  that  goodly  item. 

We  sat  on  the  ground  leaning  against  a  plaited  side  of 
the  shed,  enjoying  the  yielding  turf  under  our  tired  limbs 
and  long  draughts  of  the  incomparable  cocoanut.  Every 
living  thing  eats  cocoanut  meat  in  Nuka-Hiva — fowls,  pigs, 
men,  dogs,  women,  horses,  cats  and  birds.  So  we  amused 
ourselves  seeing  how  near  the  domestic  livestock  would  come 
to  take  our  cocoanut  from  us.  The  horses  nearly  drove  us 
out  by  their  voracity — and  speaking  of  horses:  although  it 
is  not  much  above  fifteen  miles  to  Hooumi  from  Taiohae, 
they  are  hard  miles,  and  one  would  have  thought  our  ani- 
mals would  enjoy  a  rest;  but  from  the  instant  the  saddles 
were  removed  there  was  a  continuous  vicious  engagement 
among  the  stallions  that  kept  every  one  on  the  lookout  lest 
he  be  run  down.  My  Jacques'  first  offence  was  to  walk  up 
to  Jack's  innocent  horse  and  deliberately  bite  a  generous 


128  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

mouthful  out  of  the  soft  part  of  the  back,  which  cannibal 
outrage  he  twice  repeated  before  nightfall.  And  Jack  does 
so  hate  to  ride  an  animal  that  has  the  slightest  scratch  under 
the  saddle! 

It  would  take  too  long  to  go  into  the  details  of  how  a  pit 
is  prepared,  so  that  when  the  pig  is  wrapped  in  leaves  and 
laid  among  hot  stones  it  becomes  roasted  as  the  natives  like 
it.  Suffice  it  that  our  puarka  was  thus  buried,  piled  with 
leaves,  and  the  whole  covered  with  earth ;  whereupon  a  long, 
lean  dog  that  had  missed  no  jot  of  the  proceedings,  composed 
himself  to  sleep  on  the  warm  grave. 

It  takes  these  people  endless  times  as  long  to  do  anything 
as  it  does  white  men.  Most  white  men,  I  should  qualify, 
for  the  Norwegian  captain  never  knows  his  mind  two  min- 
utes and  backs  and  fills  with  staggering  rapidity  when  any 
kind  of  decision  has  to  be  made.  I  cannot  see  how  he  com- 
mands a  ship.  He  had  been  vociferating  sixteen  times  in 
every  fifteen  minutes  during  the  latter  part  of  the  journey 
and  while  we  were  getting  settled  in  camp,  that  he  would 
not  stay  over  night ;  he  had  stated  positively  the  day  before 
that  he  could  not  go  at  all,  and  this  in  reply  to  no  special 
urging;  he  had  been  largely  to  blame  for  our  tardy  start, 
and  whenever  any  hitch  occurred,  he  would  roundly  abuse 
Nikko — Nikko,  who  was  our  guide,  not  his. 

But  to  get  back.  The  dilatory  methods  of  the  native 
cooks  made  it  quite  imperative  to  assuage  our  appetites  with 
fruit  and  cocoanuts;  and,  strange  to  say,  so  great  a  void 
was  there  that  we  were  in  no  way  daunted  when  we  dropped 
cross-legged  on  the  cottage  porch  and  surveyed  the  banquet. 
We  leaned  against  our  saddles  and  saddle-bags  and  partook 
of  boiled  breadfruit  that  we  knew  was  the  real  thing  at  last. 
I  cannot  name  the  flavour  of  this  substantial  comestible ;  but 
I  can  say  that  the  man  who  described  it  as  tasting  like  sour 
potatoes  and  cheese  and  turpentine  and  kerosene  must  have 
had  accidents  in  his  kitchen.  Lake  the  taro,  which  it  re- 
sembles in  excellence  only,  it  is  a  noble  vegetable — or  fruit 
we  must  call  it,  I  suppose,  since  it  grows  on  a  tree ;  and  I  am 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  129 

quite  sure  that  if  I  had  to  live  entirely  on  breadfruit  or  taro, 
or  both,  I  should  not  miss  bread  or  potatoes. 

They  set  breadfruit  poi-poi  before  us,  and  very  good  it 
was,  with  its  tart  flavour ;  but  I  think  we  shall  never  like  it 
as  we  do  the  taro  poi.  There  was  a  big  bowl  of  fowl  de- 
liciously  boiled  in  the  pressed  milk  from  the  meat  of  cocoa- 
nuts,  and  we  added  Taiohae  bakery  bread  that  we  had 
brought  in  a  sack.  There  were  eggs,  nicely  soft-boiled,  and 
the  Hatiheu  princess  and  her  friend,  who  had  warmed  to- 
ward us  by  now,  affably  demonstrated  how  to  eat  certain  small 
chunks  of  fish  from  the  fingers,  first  dipping  into  a  slightly 
fermented  cocoanut  sauce.  For  wine,  we  quaffed  from 
fresh  cocoanut  flagons.  Home  is  sweet,  to  be  sure;  but  I 
wish  Marquesan  cocoanuts  and  breadfruit  grew  in  my 
kitchen  garden ! 

The  women  of  the  place  were  very  shy  with  me  for  a 
while.  I  do  not  think  they  have  seen  many  white  women, 
for  all  the  European  blood  that  pales  their  own  faces.  Be- 
sides, there  was  the  difficulty  of  my  trousers  to  be  got  over, 
and  I  cannot  wonder  at  their  corner-comments  and  embar- 
rassed smiles. 

After  dinner  we  were  invited  into  the  main  apartment  of 
the  two-roomed  house,  where  we  sat  in  a  circle  on  a  spotless, 
polished  wooden  floor,  and  were  offered  absinthe  for  a 
liqueur.  A  bit  of  French  helped  us  along,  and  the  Scan- 
dinavian, besides  his  English,  knew  a  little  Marquesan  from 
the  Hatiheu  girl,  so  we  did  very  well.  I  noticed  the  sew- 
ing machine  that  books  all  mention  as  the  invariable 
piece  de  resistance  of  South  Sea  Island  well-to-do  homes — 
indeed  there  were  two,  and  the  fresh  red  calico  eueu  worn 
by  our  hostess  showed  that  the  machines  were  not  allowed  to 
rust.  This  lady  had  kept  in  the  background  until  now,  and 
we  found  her  very  handsome,  of  a  big,  sumptuous,  Hawaiian 
type. 

One  thing  I  was  determined  to  find  out — if  there  was  any 
of  the  old  tapa  cloth  left  in  this  forsaken  country.  The  mis- 
tress of  the  house  looked  a  likely  person  to  ask;  and  she 


130  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

went  into  the  other  room,  nodding  her  head.  After  an 
anxious  time  for  me,  out  she  came  with  a  nine-foot  roll  of 
pure  white  fabric,  undoubtedly  made  many  years  ago  from 
the  breadfruit  bark,  for  no  tapa  of  any  description  is  made 
by  the  Marquesans  now.  This  piece  exactly  answered  Mel- 
ville's description  of  the  clothing  worn  by  the  maidens,  and 
it  was  in  good  condition.  It  was  the  only  good  white  piece  we 
were  able  to  obtain,  all  the  rest  being  deep  cream  and 
of  coarser  fibre.  Dear  me — if  Fayaway  came  to  Typee  now 
she  would  have  to  array  her  loveliness  in  a  red  calico  wrap- 
per. But  the  daughters  of  Nuka-Hiva  are  quick  to  emulate  a 
new  style.  Already,  in  Taiohae,  I  have  noticed  the  luxuriant 
locks  of  several  swarthy  damsels  going  topward  in  imitation 
of  my  modest  chignon.  Perhaps,  who  can  tell?  one  visiting 
Hooumi  a  few  years  hence  may  find  the  leaders  of  fashion 
promenading  in  khaki  riding  breeks! 

But  I  cannot  allow  myself  any  kind  of  a  joke  at  the  ex- 
pense of  these  dying  Hooumians.  Although  this  little  com- 
munity was  more  prosperous  and  sanitary  than  what  we 
saw  in  Typee,  it  is  not  saying  much,  as  we  soon  found  when 
the  news  of  our  tapa  purchase  went  out  and  the  women  began 
to  bring  in  the  sheaves  of  their  foremothers.  The  lame,  the 
halt,  and  the  blind,  the  asthmatic,  the  consumptive — shyly 
and  painfully  they  came  and  laid  their  faded  bundles  at 
our  feet,  eagerly  watching  our  discriminating  eyes,  some 
gasping  for  breath,  their  sunken  chests  rattling.  One 
woman  in  particular,  a  half-breed,  had  the  prettiest  French 
face  imaginable,  "pale  as  the  milk  of  cocoanuts,"  with  big 
soft  brown  eyes  that  lighted  up  when  she  saw  our  approval 
of  her  creamy  fathoms  and  the  money  Jack  held  out  to  her. 
And  all  the  time  the  poor  soul  was  fighting  for  breath,  her 
hands  often  clutching  the  air.  When  she  went  from 
us,  Jack  and  I  looked  at  each  other  silently,  for  we  could 
hear  a  long  way  off  the  involuntary  groans  from  her  ruined 
lungs.  And  her  father — where  is  he?  Who  might  he  be? 
For  a  thoughtful  moment  the  universe  was  "jangled,  out  of 
tune." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  131 

We  collected  quite  a  bale  of  rare  old  tapa,  accepting  only 
the  best.  I  suppose  we  saw  about  all  there  was  left  in  the 
valley,  and  it  was  not  much.  As  far  as  I  can  discover,  this 
white  and  cream  tapa  was  the  only  kind  made  by  the  Mar- 
quesans.  The  patterns  and  warm  colours  of  the  Hawaiian 
and  Samoan  sorts  were  unknown  here. 

Before  bedtime,  we  two  stole  off  for  a  little  look-see  about 
the  beach.  There  was  an  air  of  happy  excitement  even  in 
the  moonlit  woods,  for  foreign  visitors  are  very  infrequent 
and  the  village  was  out  and  a-whisper  with  our  com- 
ing. 

Aside  from  the  witchery  of  shining  strand  and  the  shadowy 
woods,  we  saw  nothing  of  special  interest  except  a  long, 
graceful  whaleboat  that  lay  wrecked  and  rotting  in  the  rank 
grass. 

The  rest  of  the  party  had  decided  to  return  to  Taiohae  at 
six  next  morning,  for  our  captain  had  work  aboard  the  Snark, 
and  the  other  skipper  was  near  the  end  of  his  lading  and 
must  get  back.  Jack  and  I  planned  to  take  our  time  in 
order,  if  possible,  to  pick  up  some  wooden  bowls  and  other 
curios.  We  secured  one  small  but  beautifully-grained  bowl, 
or  calabash,  this  evening. 

We  were  allotted  the  one  small  room  off  the  large  one,  and 
found  on  the  immaculate  floor  three  spotless  white  pillows, 
stuffed  with  silk-cotton,  and  a  white  bedspread.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  where  the  lady  of  the  house  learned  her 
civilised  cleanliness.  We  laid  our  heavy  oilskin  saddle- 
slickers,  for  mattress,  and  turned  in  under  the  white 
counterpane.  Outside  on  the  porch  a  string  of  natives  of 
both  sexes  and  all  conditions  slept  side  by  side,  heads  to  the 
wall.  I  say  slept,  but  it  is  only  a  manner  of  speaking. 
There  was  a  clamour  of  coughs,  wheezings,  expectorations, 
and  conversation  more  or  less  desultory — principally  less, 
for  just  as  I  would  decide  they  were  at  last  dead-o,  and  com- 
pose myself  for  that  coveted  end,  somebody  would  break  out 
again,  the  whole  chain  catching  like  a  pack  of  firecrackers. 
Our  invasion  being  their  latest  topic,  we  knew  we  were  the 


132  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

subject  of  debate.    At  last  they  quieted,  and  we  succumbed 
to  the  liquid  lullaby  of  the  little  surf. 


Wednesday,  December  11,  1907. 

I  opened  my  eyes  at  seven  this  morning.  Jack  was  stand- 
ing inside  the  porch  window.  He  seemed  to  be  disagreeing 
with  a  native  outside  who  held  up  a  dark,  oscillating  object 
in  both  hands.  Jack  turned  away  as  if  he  had  lost  interest, 
whereupon  the  thing  was  flung  on  the  window  sill  in  a  curly 
heap. 

"  Goatskin  ?"  I  inquired. 

For  reply,  Jack  gathered  up  the  dusky  fleece  and  dropped 
it  into  my  lap.  Involuntarily  I  shrank  from  it.  Goatskin ! 
It  was  human  hair — long,  thick,  wavy,  the  seal-brown  matted 
strands  curling  tawny  at  the  ends.  The  eerie  locks  were 
deftly  gathered  on  a  band  of  woven  cocoanut  fibre,  and  the 
dancing-skirt,  the  hula-hula  fringe,  stood  confessed.  All 
very  beautiful ;  but  when  one  was  assured  that  undoubtedly 
this  garnered  wealth  of  hair  had  been  shorn  from  the  heads 
of  human  sacrifices  that  had  been  cooked  and  eaten  by  their 
captors,  the  lightsomeness  of  romance  dimmed  somewhat. 
I  handled  the  ghastly  trophy  gingerly,  but  with  a  determina- 
tion that  it  should  not  escape  the  "Snark  room"  we  mean  to 
build  at  home ;  and  a  little  later  a  bargain  was  struck.  The 
curio  would  have  been  cheap  at  any  cost,  for  it  is  a  priceless 
memento  of  a  vanishing  race. 

The  lethargic  Hooumians  were  aroused  at  last.  Acquisi- 
tiveness was  the  order  of  the  day.  Their  hoarded  ancestral 
treasures  were  snatched  from  mouldy  seclusion  and  showered 
on  the  sunlit  pae-pae.  While  the  bartering  was  on,  much 
counsel  was  offered  to  each  seller  by  his  companions.  Chil- 
dren mixed  with  the  chattering,  coughing  crowd,  and  an  oc- 
casional yelp  attested  to  some  skinny  dog  having  been  landed 
by  a  flipper-like  savage  foot. 

A  pair  of  armlets  to  match  the  hirsute  hula-hula  skirt 
came  to  light,  and  the  eager  villagers  all  tried  to  explain  at 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  133 

once  that  there  should  also  be  anklets,  but  that  none  were  to 
be  found.  We  felt  like  paleontologists  reconstructing  an 
antediluvian  monster — but  instead  of  bones  we  had  only  hairs 
to  go  by.  And  speaking  of  hairs,  we  made  another  lucky 
find  in  several  of  the  ''old  men's  beards"  that  Stevenson 
describes  as  so  precious  to  the  Marquesan  heart.  These  are 
thin  grey  fringes  about  a  foot  long,  stiff  and  grim,  and  are 
worn  on  the  forehead,  held  by  a  brow-band  and  thrust 
starkly  upward. 

The  asthmatic  French-faced  girl  glided  toward  us  with 
seraphic  smile  and  shining  upraised  gaze,  bearing  in  her  two 
hands  a  crown  of  carved  yellow  turtle-shell,  thick  and  beau- 
tifully spotted,  the  curving  sections  held  together  by  deli- 
cately plaited  threads  of  cocoanut  fibre.  King  or  priest,  we 
could  not  find  out  whose  had  been  the  head  or  heads  that 
once  bore  this  rare  ornament.  Each  piece  is  carved  differ- 
ently, with  fine  workmanship,  and  we  shall  probably  never 
know  the  meaning  of  the  figures  wrought  into  the  shell. 
Perhaps  to  the  present  generation  they  are  meaningless. 
That  the  crown  is  old,  is  shown  by  the  condition  of  the  cocoa- 
nut  sennit,  as  well  as  the  firm  dirt-incrustations  in  the  shell. 
We  were  shown  how  to  fasten  the  "old  men's  beards"  inside 
the  circlet,  and  the  effect  was  startling  enough. 

The  pretty  crown-bearer  proved  a  good  business  woman, 
and  did  not  cheapen  her  wares  by  showing  them  all  at  once. 
Once  the  curio  had  become  ours,  she  brought  out  another,  a 
brow-band  of  porpoise-teeth  and  beads.  This  did  not  appeal 
so  strongly,  although  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives  the  porpoise- 
teeth  rendered  it  far  more  valuable  than  the  turtle-shell 
crown.  They  pressed  close  in  their  efforts  to  explain  the  dis- 
tinction. But  it  was  the  woman  who  won.  She  was  so 
sweetly  wistful,  that  we  bought  it  mainly  to  see  her  smile 
again. 

Then  we  turned  to  the  calabashes  (kokas)  that  had  been 
collected  for  our  inspection — bowls,  great  and  small,  of  heavy 
mio  wood,  hard  as  stone.  Nothing  we  had  seen  in  Hawaii 
could  excel  these  old  Marquesan  vessels.  To  be  sure,  they 


134  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

were  not  polished;  but  it  was  easy  to  discern,  through  the 
grime  of  many  years,  the  splendid  graining  of  the  wood  and 
its  possibilities  for  a  shining  surface.  Our  only  difficulty 
was  how  to  carry  them,  and  we  wanted  them  all ;  but  our 
quandary  was  simplified  by  finding  that  most  of  the  biggest 
were  undesirable  on  account  of  cracks;  so  we  compromised 
on  three  that  were  perfect,  and  a  lot  of  small  ones,  some 
round,  some  oval.  We  gave  our  hostess  all  the  bread  that 
remained — a  coveted  delicacy — and  Nikko  used  the  gunny 
sacks  for  packing  the  calabashes  on  his  horse,  while  Jack 
and  I  carefully  stowed  in  our  saddle-bags  the  smaller  and 
more  fragile  things.  I  shall  never  cease  to  regret  that  we 
could  not  manage  that  long-pig  trencher  from  the  cook-shed. 

By  now  it  was  time  for  breakfast,  and  we  fortified  our- 
selves with  eggs,  bread,  bananas  and  cocoanuts.  After 
which  we  strolled  about  with  the  kodak  for  a  last  look  at 
the  village.  At  half  past  nine  we  were  mounted  and  bidding 
farewell,  and  oh!  it  was  a  joyous  jaunt  across  the  island. 
Hooumi  thrilled  with  bird-voices  and  river-songs  in  the 
green-and-gold  forenoon,  while  Typee  lay  sleeping  her  long, 
long  sleep,  her  sombre  head  wrapped  in  a  grey  cloud-pall. 
We  sat  a  little  space  looking  our  last  on  the  great,  silent 
picture,  before  leaving  it  forever. 

''Don't  try  to  take  it,"  Jack  advised,  as  I  trained  my  tiny 
camera  on  the  splendour  of  Typee  Vai.  ' '  You  will  be  disap- 
pointed— it  will  be  only  a  blur. ' ' 

But  I  snapped  it  all  the  same,  thinking  that  even  a  blur 
of  Typee  would  be  better  than  no  record. 

When  we  reached  Mrs.  Fisher's  about  noon,  our  horses 
fresh  and  lively,  we  found  that  the  others,  who  left  Hooumi 
three  hours  ahead,  had  beaten  us  in  by  only  fifteen  minutes. 
At  first  we  could  not  understand.  But  it  turned  out  that 
the  captain  of  the  bark  had  forced  the  pace  until  his  horse 
gave  out  in  an  hour,  and  the  others,  nearly  as  badly  off,  were 
held  up  waiting  for  it  to  recover.  Martin  was  indignant, 
because  try  as  he  would  to  hold  the  rest,  he  was  obliged  to 
overdo  his  own  horse  to  some  extent. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK  135 

.  .  .  While  we  were  faring  to  Typee,  the  nineteen  labourers 
of  Taiohae  were  bringing  the  red  goddess  down  the  moun- 
tain. It  is  a  significant  fact  that  no  Marquesan  would  touch 
it,  which  leads  one  to  conclude  that  of  the  total  of  able- 
bodied  workmen  of  Taiohae,  not  one  is  a  real  Marquesan. 
And  there  were  murmurings  on  the  beach  that  day — impo- 
tent and  spiritless  protests  of  the  old  blood  against  this 
desecration  of  its  hoary  wood.  So  the  maternal  Tataura 
was  toted  down  out  of  the  jungle  and  deposited  whole  and 
unharmed  in  the  rickety  old  bark's  hold. 

.  .  .  This  evening  we  dropped  in  to  see  Mr.  Rahling  in  his 
pretty  cottage  smothered  with  vines  and  flowers — one  yellow 
bell-shaped  blossom,  called  by  the  natives  epuua,  rioting 
everywhere.  He  came  out  from  a  little  workshop  next  his 
bedroom,  and  at  our  request  took  us  in  to  see  what  he  had 
been  doing.  Among  other  cleverly  wrought  articles,  he  had 
carved  several  saddle-trees  out  of  the  hard  mio  wood — 
excellent  models  of  the  McClellan  type.  There  were  also 
two  side-saddles.  " Nothing  to  it!"  declared  Jack.  "You 
must  sell  me  a  saddle-tree."  And  we  added  this  to  the  rest 
of  our  Marquesan  curios.  But  never  fear  but  this  saddle, 
although  of  the  nature  of  a  curio,  will  be  rigged  up  some 
day  and  see  good  use  on  the  home  ranch. 

Mr.  Rahling  also  parted  with  a  little  red  god  of  stone  and 
two  small  calabashes;  then  to  our  delight  we  found  a  pair 
of  human  hair  anklets  which  he  was  willing  to  forego, 
although  he  had  no  idea  where  he  could  duplicate  them. 
Indeed,  both  he  and  Mr.  Kreiech  are  astonished  at  the  num- 
ber of  valuable  things  we  have  secured,  insisting  that  they 
did  not  know  they  still  remained  on  the  island. 

Returning  home,  we  walked  in  upon  the  two  old  thor- 
oughbreds, sitting  a-ham  before  the  collection  of  heirlooms 
we  had  haled  from  Hooumi.  They  Oh'd  and  Ah'd  lugu- 
briously when  we  added  the  red  god  and  calabashes  and 
anklets  to  the  mound,  then  rose  sighing  and  went  to  their 
own  quarters.  Poor  things — it  is  a  wrench  for  them  to  see 
the  last  of  their  relics  going  into  the  hands  of  pale  inter- 


136  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

lopers,  although  we,  at  least,  are  not  unmindful  of  their  sen- 
timent. 

But  of  all  the  outlandish  trophies  from  our  Typean  quest, 
none  holds  the  grisly  allure  of  the  hair  skirt  and  its  ac- 
companiments. More  than  one  head  must  have  fallen  to 
furnish  such  abounding  tresses.  Those  of  the  skirt  are  all  of 
two  feet  in  length,  and  piled  thick,  layer  upon  layer,  so  that 
the  least  movement  produces  that  oscillation  I  had  noticed  on 
the  window-sill.  We  try  to  vision  the  unholy  rites  wherein 
this  ghastly  garmenture  was  worn. 


Thursday,  December  12,  1907. 

This  is  the  day  upon  which  the  Snark's  company  had 
wagered  it  would  see  Nuka-Hiva.  So  we  have  been  paying 
Jack  his  ill-gotten  dollars.  His  judgment  was  six  days  better 
than  ours ;  and  thinking  over  the  happenings  of  the  past  six 
days,  we  are  mightily  glad  of  it. 

Taiohae  may  be  a  quiet  place;  but  we  somehow  find  our- 
selves beset  with  engagements  of  one  sort  or  another.  Jack 
wrote  all  this  morning  on  his  novel,  which  he  will  name  Suc- 
cess, while  I  typed  in  another  corner  of  the  porch.  When 
we  went  to  Mrs.  Fisher 's  dejeuner  at  eleven,  she  showed  us  a 
pair  of  beautifully  carved  dark-brown  calabashes  which  her 
father,  Herr  Goeltz,  had  sent  over  for  our  approval.  We 
"  approved "  promptly,  and  they  were  ours  in  no  time,  as 
they  were  the  handsomest  things  of  their  kind  we  had  ever 
seen.  Herr  Goeltz  also  sent  word  that  he  had  more  of  these, 
as  well  as  other  curiosities,  if  we  cared  to  pay  him  a  visit 
across  the  way,  which  we  shall  do  to-morrow. 

We  had  promised  to  go  aboard  the  bark  this  afternoon; 
and,  after  a  siesta  on  our  shady  veranda,  went  out  in  the 
ship's  boat  with  the  captain.  That  man  is  so  good  looking, 
and  has  such  charming  moods,  that  we  could  like  him 
wholly  were  it  not  for  his  inhumanity  to  horses. 

There  is  strong  romance  to  me  in  old  ships,  especially  in 
such  a  setting.  We  climbed  up  the  side  ladder  and  found 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  137 

ourselves  in  the  rickiest  vessel  imaginable.  The  topmasts  had 
a  raffish  cant  that  made  one  think  apprehensively  of  Pau- 
motan  hurricanes.  Decks  were  unkempt,  ropes  looked  risky ; 
even  the  " absinthe-minded  crew"  had  a  gaunt,  uncanny, 
unfed  appearance.  Our  movements  on  deck  were  impeded 
by  frightened  and  fragrant  goats  running  at  large,  together 
with  the  vociferations  of  an  unseen  litter  of  lusty  puppies 
added  to  the  weird  din.  We  moused  around  the  mouldy 
quarters  of  the  vessel,  peering  into  bilgy  holes  and  weevily 
stores,  and  then  went  below,  where  I  sat  in  a  cushioned  nook 
of  the  really  cosy  little  cabin  of  Norwegian  pine,  the  walls 
of  which  the  captain  had  himself  decorated  with  fleur  de  lis 
picked  out  in  aluminum  paint.  We  drank  smooth  French 
beer  and  swapped  yarns  for  an  hour  or  more — at  least  the 
men  did,  and  I  listened.  Captain  Warren  was  somewhat 
gloomy,  for  this  very  morning  he  fell  down  the  bark's  com- 
panionway  and  all  but  broke  his  ribs,  and  a  bigger  baby 
than  an  injured  sailor  is  hard  to  find. 

Jack  got  some  Norwegian  pine  and  several  Asiatic  pilot 
books  in  exchange  for  superfluous  manila  hawser  from  the 
Snark.  This  skipper  runs  his  ship  very  easily,  it  would 
seem.  Parting  with  a  pilot  book  or  a  volume  of  sailing  direc- 
tions means  nothing  to  him.  Short  a  1908  Almanac,  he  is 
too  careless  to  copy  a  few  pages  from  ours.  Why,  he 
has  actually  allowed  his  chronometer  to  run  down,  and  it 
looks  as  if  he  intends  to  go  to  sea  day  after  to-morrow  with- 
out setting  it  by  ours!  But  he's  a  man  for  a'  that,  for  who 
but  he  flared  the  big  light  for  us  the  night  we  crept  feeling 
our  way  into  the  harbour ! 

We  took  him  over  to  the  Snarlc.  Our  men  were  holyston- 
ing the  deck — the  first  it  had  ever  received.  Herrmann 
met  us  with  his  Mona  Lisa  smirk,  and  almost  burst  with 
pride  over  the  new  whiteness  of  the  deck.  He  seemed  much 
impressed  with  the  change  my  "shore  clothes"  made  in  me, 
and  commented  respectfully,  not  for  the  first  time,  on  the 
lack  of  tan  on  my  complexion.  But  on  this  occasion  he 
quite  eclipsed  himself.  He  broke  out  heartily : 


138  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

"I  tell  you,  there  is  of  only  one  white  man  aboard  the 
Snark,  and  that 's  Mrs.  London ! ' ' 

And  the  goose  did  not  know  why  we  laughed. 

Herrmann  had  permission  to  take  Jack's  Mauser  out  for 
goats  yesterday.  He  made  a  day  of  it,  and  has  been  busy 
ever  since  explaining  in  detail  the  various  reasons  why  he 
did  not  bring  home  any  game. 

Mr.  Eahling  was  on  the  wharf  when  we  landed,  swimming 
Jacques  in  the  deep  water  alongside.  Seeing  the  horse  in 
the  water  reminded  me  that  our  men  noticed  a  shark  near 
the  yacht  the  other  day.  I  had  thought  of  taking  a  swim 
every  morning  off  the  pier,  but  this  changed  my  mind. 


Friday,  December  13,  1907. 

No  matter  how  hard  we  work,  it  is  rest  to  live  in  this  tran- 
quil house.  In  one  corner  of  the  viny  porch  a  chapter  of 
the  novel  is  being  finished,  in  another  my  eternal  typewriter 
clicks;  while  at  the  fence  awed  voices  murmur,  as  Tomi's 
daughter  Tahia  explains  the  writing-machine.  Tahia  means 
''above  the  rest,"  and  this  little  brown-eyed  girl  of  fourteen 
is  certainly  the  superior  of  her  playmates  in  beauty  and  in- 
telligence. She  has  been  allowed  to  come  close  to  the  won- 
derful machine  that  manufactures  books  (more  amazing,  I 
do  believe,  than  the  talking-box),  and  feels  very  important. 
I  go  on  typing  while  they  stand  a  few  feet  away  whispering 
under  a  whisper,  fearful  of  disturbing.  Then  they  steal 
away  on  their  bare,  fan-like  feet,  with  a  soft  kaoha  in  thanks 
and  good  morning.  The  natives  are  very  considerate  of  our 
privacy,  never  making  themselves  nuisances  in  any  way. 

While  we  are  busy  with  our  end  of  the  work,  refreshing 
ourselves  ever  and  anon  from  our  pitcher  of  orange-nectar 
(we  have  thirty-five  oranges  squeezed  every  morning) ,  Nakata 
goes  about  learning  the  ways  of  a  white  man's  house,  al- 
though the  makeshift  manner  in  which  we  are  living  is  not 
the  best  of  training.  Aside  from  the  routine  o£  the  Snark, 
the  little  man  is  innocent  of  European  habits — with  tl^e  ex- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  139 

ception  of  one,  fine  washing  and  ironing.  What  a  boon  in 
the  South  Seas!  Jack's  white  crepe  shirts  and  my  sheer 
lawns  and  linens — they're  all  one  to  Nakata. 

The  seaward  aspect  of  our  Elysium  showed  a  trifle  ruffled 
this  morning,  a  heavy  swell  sending  an  unusual  surf  on  our 
brown  shingle,  where  the  men  loading  lighters  with  the  last 
of  the  bark's  copra  cargo  were  having  a  lively  time.  The 
southeast  trade,  the  tua-to-ha,  is  blowing  briskly,  with  the 
same  twist  to  the  north  'ard  that  gave  us  fair  wind  here  from 
above  the  Line. 

We  added  to  our  knowledge  of  South  Sea  kao-kao  at  break- 
fast to-day,  in  the  shape  of  roasted  fei — pronounced  fay-ee. 
It  resembles  a  plantain  in  appearance  and  tastes  like  a  hardy, 
substantial  banana,  though  less  sweet.  The  natives  are  espe- 
cially fond  of  it. 

From  Mrs.  Fisher's,  accompanied  by  her  purring,  tailless 
cat,  we  crossed  over  to  Herr  Goeltz's.  He  met  us  on  the 
tottering,  trellised  veranda,  on  his  grey  head  a  faded  black 
velvet  cap  trimmed  with  yellowed  lace,  on  his  sunken  frame 
a  nondescript  suit,  trousers  tied  in  at  the  ankles  to  keep  out 
sandflies — the  nau-naus.  (Jack  and  I  are  already  wishing 
we  had  been  more  careful.)  The  old  man  led  us  into  the 
dim  and  dusty  twilight  of  his  cobwebby  castle — a  fairly  com- 
modious house  of  five  rooms.  I  at  once  became  lost,  poking 
around  in  the  musty  corners,  into  spidery  cabinets  brought 
in  old  ships  from  Germany;  old  albums;  baskets  of  shells 
and  green  cat-eyes  from  Samoa,  and  cupboards  of  beautiful 
china  and  heavy  old  French  porcelain.  Our  eagle-faced 
host,  sharp  and  keen  of  wit  for  all  his  eighty-two  years, 
while  showing  us  about  talked  upon  a  score  of  topics.  One 
of  these  was  his  cruise  through  the  Paumotus  on  the  Casco 
as  Stevenson's  pilot;  another  was  his  noble  Polish  family, 
for  estray  though  he  be,  he  has  a  title  all  his  own.  He 
brought  out  several  more  of  those  fascinating  carven  bowls 
of  wood,  concerning  one  of  which,  a  symmetrical  oval  laced 
with  intricate  traceries,  he  told  us  a  creepy  tale.  Without 
going  into  the  sanguinary  particulars,  you  may  take  it  that 


140  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

the  blood  of  two  white  skippers  has  been  drunk  from  this 
ornate  receptacle ;  and,  if  history  be  true,  their  fate  was  far 
too  good  for  them.  For  instance,  one  of  these  captains, 
among  other  atrocities  in  return  for  the  goodwill  and  royal 
hospitality  of  the  natives  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  group, 
presented  the  chief  with  a  wholly  rotten  whaleboat  that  had 
all  the  seeming  of  staunch  newness,  what  of  shining  paint 
and  gay  trimmings.  That  captain  had  the  bad  luck  to  be 
wrecked  at  the  self-same  place  a  few  years  later.  If  you 
don 't  believe  it,  we  11  show  you  the  bowl ! 

Herr  Goeltz  had  disposed  of  the  bulk  of  his  possessions 
long  before  we  touched  at  Taiohae,  which  made  us  wish  we 
had  been  earlier.  However,  it  took  half  a  dozen  to  carry 
away  the  spoils  of  our  forage.  I  had  often  noticed  the 
green-trimmed  porcelain  with  which  Mrs.  Fisher  set  the 
table,  and  it  turned  out  that  she  had  borrowed  it  from  her 
father,  who  had  the  remainder  of  the  set.  Such  tureens! 
Such  platters,  and  such  great  plates!  Said  Jack,  with  a 
small  amused  smile  at  the  l  ( pictured  corners ' '  of  his  mouth : 

"I  think  we  could  use  the  whole  set,  couldn't  we?" 

It  is  very  nice  to  be  treated  like  a  small  daughter  occa- 
sionally, and  thereupon  we  fell  to  counting  the  pieces  to  see 
what  was  missing.  The  dishes  had  been  often  borrowed  and 
some  of  them  broken;  but  there  was  a  goodly  array  left. 
Mrs.  Fisher  came  over  during  our  despoiling,  and,  while 
glad  to  see  her  father  making  a  little  money,  she  could  not 
hide  the  sadness  in  her  eyes  at  the  last  family  treasures 
going  the  way  of  the  rest. 

I  added  some  delicate  teacups;  then  there  were  a  couple 
of  old  ivory  fans,  and  a  pair  of  fine  conches.  We  also 
found  some  thick  round  heis  (wreaths)  of  small  yellow-and- 
white  landshells,  and  a  true  ( ?)  piece  of  the  elm,  or  what- 
ever the  tree  was,  that  grew  over  Napoleon's  grave  at  St. 
Helena. 

We  were  tired  and  warm  upon  reaching  home,  and,  piling 
our  burden  in  a  corner  of  the  big  room,  retired  to  the  con- 
crete bath  and  sat  reading  for  an  hour,  the  water  up  to  our 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  141 

chins.  It  would  be  hard  to  eclipse  our  schemes  for  comfort. 
Stevenson  doesn't  mention  this  rude  tub.  Think  what  he 
missed.  His  description  of  the  club  is:  "A  billiard-board, 
a  map  of  the  world  on  Mercator's  projection,  and  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  verandas  in  the  tropics. "  We  are  heartily 
ready  to  indorse  this  last,  even  in  advance  of  any  other  ex- 
perience in  verandas  under  the  Equator. 

The  Norwegian  came  in  to  bid  us  farewell,  as  he  expected 
to  sail  at  daylight,  and  incidentally  he  trimmed  Jack's  hair 
according  to  a  promise  made  yesterday. 

The  day  ended  with  music,  and  we  had  the  novel  enter- 
tainment of  merry  Marquesans  dancing  the  energetic  hula- 
hula  of  their  Tahitian  cousins,  to  Hawaiian  music  on  an 
American  phonograph — under  a  tree  with  a  French  name ! 


Saturday,  December  14,  1907. 

"up  and  out  at  half  past  five  this  morning,  we  watched  the 
old  grey  bark  with  painted  ports  square  away  for  the 
£  zores  her  chronometer  dead  and  no  1908  Almanac  aboard. 
A  fair  vision  she  was  for  all  that,  dipping  her  flag  to 
the  tinaik,  where  Wada  was  running  up  the  colours.  A  gun 
saluted  from  the  shore,  and  dusky  women,  sitting  beneath  the 
trees  and  on  the  pier,  raised  a  mournful  wailing  for  the 
men  who  had  been  so  briefly  theirs.  "For  men  must  work, 
and  women  must  weep ' ' — it  is  the  sea-song  for  white  women, 
brown  women,  black  women,  wives  and  sweethearts,  the 
world  over — the  old,  old  game. 

We  lingered  to  see  the  last  of  the  bark,  as  she  passed 
through  the  portals  of  Taiohae  and  took  the  rocking  swell. 
Soon  her  last  royal  was  out  of  sight  behind  a  headland,  and 
we  wondered  if  we  should  ever  see  her  again.  Then  we 
watched  the  painting  of  the  morn  upon  a  shell-pink  sky  above 
the  sculptured  heads  of  the  Eastern  range,  and  drank  deep 
of  the  cool  sweet  breath  of  waking  day.  We  were  too  full 
of  peace  to  stir,  resting  there  at  the  grassy  edge  of  the 
sand.  One  by  one  the  tear-stained  women  picked  them- 


142  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

selves  up  and  went  disconsolately  along  the  green  road  to 
their  lonely  homes.  When  we,  too,  finally  rose  and  walked 
toward  the  old  club-house,  Nakata  was  starting  to  hunt  for 
us.  He  paused  when  he  saw  us — a  quaint  and  smiling 
Japanese  figure  in  grey  kimono,  standing  under  a  small 
broad  tree  laden  with  flowers  like  pink  tiger-lilies. 

" Breakfast  ready,  Missis-n,"  quoth  the  cheerful  picture; 
and  ye  of  the  cities  with  your  steaks  and  chops,  ham-and- 
eggs,  and  fried  potatoes,  have  nothing  on  us,  with  our  man- 
goes, butter-yellow,  rich  and  spicy,  our  wild  pineapple, 
sweet  as  sugar-cane,  and  our  pitcher  of  orange  juice. 

.  .  .  There  were  two  arrivals  to-day — one,  a  canoe  from 
Hooumi  bringing  two  big  calabashes  for  us,  in  the  pink  of 
condition,  and  the  other  the  beautiful  schooner  Gauloise, 
spic  and  span  as  a  gentleman's  yacht,  carrying  mails  every 
several  months  between  here  and  Tahiti.  Captain  Chabret, 
a  striking,  swarthy  man,  born  of  French  and  Paumotan 
parents,  and  educated  in  Europe,  called  with  his  mate,  who 
interpreted,  as  the  captain  speaks  little  English  and  our 
French  is  very  lame.  The  Hooumian  made  the  sleepy  after- 
noon vibrate  with  solemn  blasts  on  our  war  conches.  Once 
heard,  one  could  never  forget  the  barbaric  mournfulness 
of  their  long,  resonant,  bell-like  call.  It  conjured  up  night- 
mares of  stealthy  tattooed  savages  gathering  for  the  fray 
and  secret  orgy  of  long-pig. 

At  five  o  'clock  we  went  to  the  store  to  see  for  the  last  time 
the  social  gathering  of  pay-day — for  Jack  says  we  shall  get 
away  Wednesday.  I  cannot  say  enough  for  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  Kreiech  and  Mr.  Rahling.  They  have  never  been  too 
busy  to  give  their  undivided  attention  to  our  slightest  want 
When  Mr.  Kreiech  discovered  that  I  was  interested  in  the 
old  French  silver  which  is  current  here,  he  had  me  into  the 
inner  office  free  to  rummage  in  the  money-bags.  I  found 
several  five-franc  pieces  bearing  the  head  of  Napoleon  over 
the  dates  of  1809,  1811,  and  1813,  for  which,  of  course,  Jack 
paid  the  equivalent. 

Captain   Chabret  dropped  in,   and  Mr.   Kreiech  opened 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  143 

bottles  of  sweet  French  champagne  on  a  counter,  and  brought 
a  couple  of  watermelons  from  his  garden.  How  Martin 
Johnson's  Kansan  eyes  did  shine! 

After  a  while  Jack  and  I  gravitated  out  to  the  big  box  on 
the  porch  to  dangle  our  heels  once  more  under  the  yellow 
spilth  of  the  sketchy  cotton-tree.  The  grief-stricken  girls  of 
the  early  hours  were  arm-in-arm  and  eye-to-eye  with  the 
men  of  their  own  kind,  who  looked  well  content.  "We  saw 
our  two  aristocrats  of  the  cottage,  the  woman,  whose  name  I 
have  discovered  to  be  Mauani  ("Sky  is  covered"),  as  usual 
on  such  occasions  making  herself  and  her  puarka  very  much 
at  home.  The  jolly  workmen,  in  the  big  white  cook-caps 
they  often  wear,  jostled  one  another  in  the  store  as  they 
spent  their  earnings  in  gaudy  pareus  and  tobacco.  Among 
the  dark  skins,  Mrs.  Fisher's  daughter  shone  white  as  a  lily, 
moving  about  with  her  plump  pink  baby.  She  is  a  veritable 
Madonna,  and  Leonardo  would  find  himself  in  his  element 
here,  for  this  girl,  like  Herrmann,  has  a  Mona  Lisa  smile 
and  the  inscrutable  gaze  that  goes  with  it.  Mrs.  Fisher,  a 
head  above  the  crowd,  trod  her  stately  way  into  the  store, 
with  a  grandchild  hanging  to  her  skirt. 

Everybody  was  invited  down  to  hear  the  phonograph  at 
half  past  seven.  They  turned  out  en  masse,  less  shy  than 
before,  dancing  the  hula-hula  with  fervour,  Tahitian  sailors 
from  the  Gauloise  swelling  the  fun.  Simeon,  a  bright  native 
boy  who  clerks  in  the  store,  was  the  envy  of  all  when  we 
showed  him  how  to  run  the  Victor.  This  left  Jack  and  me 
free  to  mingle  with  our  guests. 

The  captain  of  the  Gauloise  was  familiar  with  the  operas, 
and  enjoyed  the  music  immensely,  murmuring  little  ex- 
pressions of  appreciation  in  French.  But  I  had  to  bother 
him  to  tell  me  about  pearls  in  the  Paumotus.  Then  Jack 
and  Captain  Warren  plied  both  him  and  his  mate  with 
questions  concerning  the  Paumotan  atolls.  The  weather  in 
their  vicinity  seems  to  be  a  joke  in  the  South  Seas,  although 
a  serious  one,  as  the  name  Dangerous  Archipelago  would 
imply.  We  have  decided  not  to  risk  the  Snark  any  length 


144  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

of  time  among  these  treacherous  coral-rings.  One  of  them, 
Rangiroa,  in  one  side  of  the  broken  circle  and  out  the  other, 
will  do  for  us  on  our  way  to  Tahiti. 

During  all  the  merrymaking  of  an  evening  like  this, 
Mauani  and  her  old  mate,  Taituheu  ("Burned-out  cinders") 
sit  in  the  living  room,  proud  to  show  that  they  are  part  of 
our  household — quite  a  change  from  their  original  attitude. 
What  is  in  their  minds  behind  those  wide-set  eyes  as  they 
watch  the  gambols  of  the  decadent  remnants  of  their  purple 
blood? 

It  is  impossible  to  form  any  true  estimate  of  what  was  the 
moral  status  of  the  original  Marquesans.  The  Sailing  Direc- 
tions of  1884  give  them  a  black  reputation  for  licentiousness, 
and  warn  shipmasters  against  putting  in  at  these  islands. 
Persons  here  with  whom  we  have  talked  say  that  a  widow  is 
grievously  insulted  if  a  new  admirer  fails  to  appear  on  the 
day  of  her  husband 's  funeral.  We  are  assured  that  the  peo- 
ple have  little  love  and  absolutely  no  gratitude.  That 
polyandry  exists,  we  have  evidence;  but  it  is  an  institution 
of  old  standing  and  high  repute. 

But  from  Melville  one  does  not  get  the  impression  that  the 
Typeans  were  unusually  lax  in  their  social  relations,  and 
Stevenson,  in  1889-90,  gives  the  Nuka-Hivans  a  good  char- 
acter for  modesty,  pride  and  friendliness,  as  well  as  endless 
courteous  observances.  At  any  rate,  whatever  they  once 
were,  they  are  passing ;  and  those  who  are  left  are  so  altered 
that  one's  conclusions  are  worth  little. 

We  asked  Mrs.  Fisher  if  she  had  known  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  She  said  she  had  met  him  at  Anaho,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  island,  where  the  Casco  first  touched,  and 
she  added : 

"He  used  to  go  about  barefoot,  with  his  trousers  and 
singlet-sleeves  turned  up,  and  never  wore  a  hat;  and  'most 
every  one  thought  he  was  a  little  crazy. ' ' 

Dear  Robert  Louis! — he  was  "crazy"  because  he  was  sav- 
ing his  own  good  life  in  his  own  good  way.  I  wonder  what 
is  the  general  opinion  of  Jack  and  me  in  our  kimonos  as  we 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  145 

trail  over  the  landscape  bareheaded  under  a  pongee  parasol, 
our  bare  feet  thrust  into  Japanese  sandals. 


December  15,  1907. 

Strange  Christmas  holiday  weather  this,  our  first  tropic 
winter.  We  look  forward  to  eating  our  Christmas  fowl 
aboard  the  Snark,  provided  she  hasn  't  become  fatally  involved 
in  the  Paumotus.  They  tell  us  that  until  very  recently  the 
insurance  companies  refused  all  risks  on  vessels  in  this  vicin- 
ity, and  now,  while  they  will  insure,  the  rate  is  twenty  per 
cent.  The  owners,  however,  take  out  no  policies.  They 
estimate  the  life  of  a  schooner  in  the  Paumotus  to  be  five 
years,  and  merely  write  off  twenty  per  cent,  a  year. 

I  could  almost  find  it  in  my  heart  to  wish  for  a  week  of 
California  climate.  The  warmth  here,  while  not  oppressive, 
keeps  my  north  temperate  cuticle  in  a  ferment  of  invisible 
prickly-heat  and  visible  bunches  of  exasperating  hives;  and 
by  now  the  nau-nau  bites  are  becoming  more  than  exasperat- 
ing ;  and  Jack 's  are  worse  than  mine. 

But  do  not  think  that  these  trifling  annoyances  interfere 
in  the  least  with  our  plans.  Jack  asked  Mr.  Rahling  to 
arrange  a  goat  hunt,  and  to-day,  with  two  mounted  kanakas 
to  carry  guns  and  game,  we  three  started.  For  the  first  time 
our  ride  took  us  off  to  the  left  of  the  Typee  trail.  We  saw 
more  of  the  beach,  and,  once  out  of  the  valley,  had  an 
entirely  new  aspect  of  the  island.  Nuka-Hiva  is  only  four- 
teen miles  long  by  ten  broad;  but  every  foot  of  it  is  worth 
seeing,  from  sea-brim  to  mountain-rim  and  all  the  verdant 
laps  of  the  valleys  between.  The  changes  that  are  wrought 
in  such  small  space  stir  one's  blood  from  moment  to 
moment.  From  dreaming  over  sweet  vales  of  repose,  the 
eyes,  startled  by  some  sudden  gloom,  rise  to  the  black  trouble 
of  stormy  peaks  where  thunder-clouds  are  rolling.  Oh!  to 
have  seen  the  volcanic  chaos  of  the  making  of  this  isle  of  the 
Southern  Sea,  with  her  sister  isles  lifting  their  heads  round 
about  to  keep  her  company. 


146  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Once  across  Taiohae's  western  bastions,  we  rode  through 
fragrant  lanes  of  yellow  cassi  at  the  head  of  another  and 
smaller  valley  almost  as  beautiful,  that  ended  in  a  wonderful 
blue  bay,  bounded  by  lofty  perpendicular  rocks  to  the  west, 
and  on  the  other  side  by  the  wild  eastern  declivity  of 
Taiohae's  wall.  I  dislike  to  mention  that  the  name  of  this 
lovely  anchorage  is  Port  Tschitschagoff,  although  it  will  soften 
your  anguish  to  know  that  the  natives  mercifully  call  it 
Hakaui,  and,  even  more  gently,  Tai-oa.  It  may  further  in- 
terest to  learn  that  it  took  a  master  mariner  born  a  Krusen- 
stern  to  outrage  such  a  heavenly  port  by  a  name  like 
Tschitschagoff. 

The  entrance  is  twenty  fathoms  deep,  with  fine  sandy 
bottom,  while  the  azure  basin  itself  is  two  hundred  fathoms 
in  depth  and  one  hundred  wide.  In  it  the  greatest  man-o'- 
war  yet  built  could  anchor  in  safety  from  the  worst  hurri- 
cane that  ever  blew;  and  to  careen  her  on  the  even,  sandy 
beach,  would  be  child's  play. 

The  valley  is  luxuriant  with  palm  and  breadfruit  and 
banana,  and  well  watered  by  streams ;  and  we  startled  from 
cover  many  a  reverted  chicken,  which  swept  with  strong 
pinions  over  the  tree-tops  on  the  incline.  But  not  a  human 
being  makes  home  in  this  ideal  spot — and  it  can  be  bought 
for  $1000  Chile,  less  than  $500  in  American  gold.  Think 
of  the  smothering  cities  of  the  world,  and  this  exquisite 
haven  gone  to  waste.  That  it  was  not  always  thus,  is 
shown  by  Captain  Krusenstern: 

11  Behind  the  beach  was  a  green  flat  resembling  a  most 
beautiful  bowling-green.  Streams  of  water  flowed  in  various 
places  from  the  mountains,  and  in  a  very  picturesque  and 
inhabited  vale.  ...  A  ship  in  need  of  repairs  could  not  wish 
for  a  finer  harbour  for  such  a  purpose.  The  depth  is  exceed- 
ingly convenient.  Bananas,  cocoanuts,  and  breadfruit,  are 
superabundant.  The  chief  advantage  is  that  you  can  anchor 
about  100  fathoms  from  the  land,  thus  having  the  king's  house 
and  all  the  village  under  the  guns  of  the  ship,  in  case  of  an 
attack." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  147 

That  was  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  now  wild  fowl,  goats, 
birds,  wasps,  and  the  ubiquitous  nau-nau  have  sole  possession. 
The  wasps  warned  us  menacingly  off  their  premises,  and  we 
went ;  but  this  wasn  't  a  circumstance  to  what  they  did  to  us 
coming  home.  But  more  of  that  later. 

Looking  back  as  we  climbed  into  yet  another  valley,  we  saw 
a  big  boulder  that  they  call  the  Rocking  Stone;  but  we  did 
not  take  time  to  prove  whether  it  really  "rocked"  or  not. 

The  valley  in  which  we  did  our  shooting  is  a  very  fast- 
ness of  natural  disorder,  as  if  the  primeval  forces  had 
stopped  midway  in  setting  it  to  rights  and  let  grass  grow 
over  the  wreckage  to  see  what  the  effect  would  be.  No 
gradual  slopes  and  placid  beaches  lead  into  this  goat-scented 
retreat.  It  would  be  a  dreadful  misfortune  to  run  a  ship's 
nose  into  its  snarling,  frothing  lip. 

Tying  the  horses,  we  took  our  rifles  and  proceeded  on  foot. 
I  have  never  done  such  rough  climbing.  It  took  all  my  wind 
to  accomplish  the  rocky  pulls,  and  all  my  confidence  to 
descend  their  other  sides.  Once — and  for  the  second  time 
in  my  life — my  nerve  deserted  me.  I  had  to  cross  the  bare 
face  of  a  horribly-sloping  rock,  and  midway,  in  spite  of 
hands  reaching  close  to  me,  I  suddenly  saw  myself  on  an  icy 
incline  in  Switzerland  where  once  I  felt  I  must  cast  myself 
in  the  abyss.  But  I  gathered  my  wits,  and  before  long  we 
were  sitting  on  the  knife-edge  of  a  windy  ridge,  with  a  world 
of  green  hills  behind,  and  the  chaotic  goat-haunt  before  us. 
We  kept  very  still,  and  breathed  our  panting  lungs  full  of  the 
flowing  air  while  cooling  off  from  the  hot  scramble.  Then  a 
dotted  line  strung  out  far  below  our  toppling  perch,  and  one 
of  the  men  fired.  The  dotted  line  lost  a  dot,  and  the  rest 
swerved  across  the  green  lawns  into  the  brush,  where  another 
dot  that  had  been  struck,  fell  just  at  the  edge.  One  altruis- 
tic goat  came  back  out  of  safety  to  sniff  at  the  fallen  one. 

The  two  kanakas,  with  two  others  who  had  appeared  out  of 
the  woods,  went  back  into  the  hills,  and  Mr.  Rahling,  Jack 
and  I  worked  seaward  along  the  ridge.  I  found  I  was  hold- 
ing their  stride  back  a  little,  and  begged  them  to  go  ahead. 


148  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

I  followed  in  their  tracks,  and  overtook  them  down  a  long 
sweep  of  grassy  hill  after  they  had  killed  several  goats.  We 
sat  a  long  time  at  the  edge  of  a  chasm,  picking  off  stray 
victims — virile  little  billy-goats  that  wagged  their  wiry 
beards  in  dismay  at  the  invasion  of  their  stronghold.  But 
the  distressed  cries  that  rose  from  the  stricken  were  not 
sweet  in  my  ears,  and  I  about  made  up  my  mind  that  now  I 
had  proved  I  could  bring  down  distant  game,  I  would  leave 
killing  to  others  in  future,  and  do  my  practising  as  be- 
fore, on  twigs  and  grasses  and  targets. 

A  sudden  shower  blew  up,  and  we  sheltered  under  the 
brow  of  a  crag  in  a  small  red  lava  cave,  odorous  of  goat, 
meanwhile  watching  rain-squalls  drift  like  brown  veils  across 
the  stern  features  of  the  mountains. 

While  our  men  were  packing  the  game  to  the  horses,  we 
rode  on  up  the  mountain  for  a  further  view  of  Nuka-Hiva. 
And  it  was  all  a  piece  of  the  same  beauty — the  castled  rocks, 
the  hills  shrugging  their  round  shoulders  against  the  blue 
mantle  of  the  sky,  the  unearthly  atmosphere  and  colouring 
of  the  little  world  of  island.  Is  there  anything  lovelier 
waiting  for  us  further  on  in  our  voyage  ? 

Out  of  sight  from  where  we  stood,  is  a  long  slope  of 
country  that  lacks  the  rugged  character  we  know  so  well,  and 
the  natives  call  it  the  "desert  land" — Henua-Ataha.  I  wish 
we  could  visit  Anaho,  on  the  northern  coast.  From  what 
Stevenson  and  his  mother  have  written,  it  must  be  very 
beautiful,  although  I  cannot  imagine  anything  to  surpass 
Taiohae.  I  wonder  if  the  discoverers,  those  ''careless  cap- 
tains," had  the  imagination  really  to  be  shaken  by  the 
beauty  of  the  Marquesas — Mendana,  and  Marchand,  and  In- 
graham. 

There  was  quite  a  row  going  on  when  we  rejoined  the 
others.  The  horses  had  seen  fit  to  take  fright  at  the  familiar 
sight  of  dead  goats,  and  were  literally  kicking  up  a  rumpus. 
Jack's  diminutive  stallion — the  one  Captain  Warren  rode  to 
Typee — joined  in  the  fracas.  He  was  looking  for  trouble. 
And  he  got  it.  When  we  came  to  the  yellow  cassi  thicket 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  149 

the  wasps  got  him,  and  unfortunately  that  meant  poor  Jack 
as  well.  He  rode  in  the  rear,  Mr.  Rahling  leading,  I  in 
between.  Jack  yelled:  "Get  out  of  my  way  quick!"  How 
could  I?  The  only  way  was  ahead,  for  the  trail  was 
exceedingly  narrow,  to  say  nothing  of  steep  and  stony. 
So  we  got  ahead,  and  I'll  never  forget  the  way  we  "got," 
dropping  down  that  perilous  path  to  Taiohae.  Mr.  Rah- 
ling's  horse  broke  into  a  headlong  scramble  as  the  insects 
stung  him,  at  the  same  time  kicking  my  horse,  who,  stung 
behind,  let  the  rear  horse  have  it,  and  caught  Jack's  foot, 
while  I  was  nearly  pitched  off.  Jack's  horse,  frantic  with 
pain  and  fear,  tried  to  pass  me,  plentifully  urged  by  his 
rider,  who  was  holding  the  side  of  his  face.  Aside  from 
one  or  two  stings  Mr.  Rahling 's  horse  and  mine  went  free, 
and  we  were  untouched.  Jack  was  the  scapegoat.  The  wasps 
were  the  largest  we  have  ever  seen — canary-yellow,  with 
bunches  of  long  yellow  legs  hanging  out  behind.  Jack  says 
they  were  as  large  as  canaries.  I  don't  know.  I  wasn't 
quite  so  close  to  them  as  that ! 

Friday,  December  20,  1907. 

We  were  a  lame  pair  to-day,  from  the  unusual  climbing. 
Then  Jack  had  a  painful  lump  on  his  neck  where  a  wasp 
had  pierced  a  cord,  and  other  lesser  lumps.  The  nau-nau 
bites  did  not  add  to  our  comfort,  and  we  decided  that  as  a 
place  of  permanent  residence  Nuka-Hiva  could  be  improved 
by  exterminating  canaries — I  mean  wasps — and  sandflies. 
There  are  divers  reasons  why  the  Marquesas  are  not  at  pres- 
ent entirely  desirable  for  white  immigrants.  One  of  these 
is  the  high  duty  on  everything  one  would  want  to  import, 
and  another  is  the  incredible  fact  that  the  French  govern- 
ment imposes  an  export  duty  on  copra,  which  is  about  the 
only  remunerative  article  of  commerce. 

This  forenoon  Jack  had  his  first  chance  to  use  his  dental 
instruments.  A  shrivelled  little  old  Chinaman  whom  we  had 
often  seen  about  the  copra  sheds,  came  shambling  up  the 
steps.  In  a  tinny  voice  and  the  most  birdlike  of  pigeon- 


150  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

English  he  volunteered  that  he  once  worked  in  San  Francisco 
as  a  cook,  and  then  asked  Jack  if  he  would  pull  a  tooth. 
Jack  laid  aside  his  manuscript  of  an  article  on  Typee,  and 
hunted  up  the  dentistry  book  to  refresh  his  memory  on  the 
experience  he  had  had  with  a  skull  in  a  dentist's  office  in 
Honolulu.  He  then  examined  the  Chinaman's  suffering 
jaw,  and  selected  the  requisite  forceps.  Martin  and  I  in- 
duced him  to  perform  the  valiant  act  behind  the  house  under 
a  banana  tree,  that  we  might  photograph  it.  And  a  curious 
picture  it  was,  the  broad-shouldered  white  man  in  Japanese 
garb,  bending  over  the  withered,  shrinking  Chinaman. 
The  ancient  fang  came  easily;  but  just  as  Jack  brought  it 
loose  and  triumphantly  held  it  up,  Martin  cried : 

"Oh,  Mr.  London,  please  put  it  back — I  wasn't  quite 
ready!" 

Shortly  afterward,  a  sensitive-faced  Tahitian  youth,  with 
big,  scared  eyes,  came  on  to  the  porch.  He  pointed  to  his 
mouth  and  made  unmistakable  gestures.  Jack  rolled  up  his 
sleeves  and  went  at  it  again,  looking  almost  as  important  as 
when  he  worked  out  his  first  chronometer  sight.  The  vic- 
tim stood  it  like  a  man,  albeit  he  quaked  and  breathed  hard 
with  the  strain.  He  seemed  very  grateful,  and  went  away 
laughing  nervously  with  the  tooth  in  his  hand. 

While  we  were  talking  over  the  morning's  professional 
doings,  a  shadow  fell  upon  us.  It  was  cast  by  Tomi,  who 
had  quietly  approached  and  stood  regarding  us  with  lugubri- 
ous eyes  and  crooked  mouth.  He  had  had  a  toothache  all 
night,  he  said,  and  only  just  now  had  met  the  jubilant 
Tahitian.  (I  have  not  told  the  latest  about  Tomi.  Unless 
he  has  been  maligned,  it  looks  very  much  as  if  he  is  respon- 
sible for  the  untimely  end  of  two  successive  wives — which 
may  account  for  a  certain  worried  look  worn  by  his  present 
consort.) 

He  sat  his  mighty  frame  upon  a  protesting  chair  and 
opened  his  mouth  warily,  keeping  a  suspicious  eye  on  Jack 
as  if  he  might  purposely  seize  upon  the  wrong  tooth.  The 
correct  one  was  laid  upon  by  the  shining  forceps,  but  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  151 

instant  they  began  lifting,  the  giant  clapped  his  jaws  to- 
gether and  grasped  Jack's  arm  in  both  hands,  emitting  the 
most  blood  curdling  groans.  Captain  Warren  and  I  took 
a  hand  at  holding  him  down,  but  it  was  no  use — although  it 
was  already  loosened,  Tomi  would  not  allow  that  tooth  to  be 
extracted.  He  was  finally  coaxed  into  having  another  drawn, 
which  he  said  had  been  aching  also. 

"More  power  to  your  elbow,  Mr.  London,"  giggled  Cap- 
tain Warren,  as  Jack  began  to  pull.  This  time  Tomi  did 
not  get  away.  We  held  on,  and  so  did  the  dentist ;  and  the 
big  hulking  fellow  went  away  as  aggrieved  as  if  we  had 
enticed  him  in  to  rob  him  of  his  teeth. 

"The  great  baby!"  Jack  said  disgustedly,  as  he  passed  the 
forceps  to  Nakata  to  cleanse.  "I  didn't  believe  about  the 
wife-killing  until  I  tried  to  pull  his  teeth. ' ' 

.  .  .  This  afternoon  we  were  in  the  most  typical  Mar- 
quesan  ha'e  we  have  seen.  Strolling  about  in  a  final  search 
for  curios,  we  were  accosted  by  an  eager  young  woman  who 
explained  brokenly  that  she  would  like  to  show  us  some  kokas. 
She  led,  to  a  high-roofed  wooden  cottage  that  we  had  seen 
many  times;  but  immediately  behind,  on  rising  ground 
and  connected  with  the  cottage  porch  by  a  plank,  was 
another  house,  a  grass  one,  not  visible  from  the  road.  We 
bent  our  heads  to  enter,  and  emerged  into  a  long  room  the 
floor  of  which  was  of  the  broad  polished  stones  of  a  pae-pae. 
Against  the  farther  wall,  full  length,  were  spread  beds  of 
clean  native  matting,  folded  and  thick-piled  just  as  Herman 
Melville  had  them  in  Typee.  Everything  was  spotlessly 
clean.  Apparently  the  family  that  lived  in  this  ha'e  took 
pride  in  keeping  up  its  traditions. 

In  a  dark  corner  we  made  out  a  number  of  large  bowls. 
The  woman  dragged  them  out  feverishly,  and  with  the  help 
of  Tahia,  who  had  followed  in,  made  us  understand  that  they 
belonged  to  her  husband,  Tomi's  brother,  and  that  she  could 
not  sell  without  consulting  him.  There  were  other  and 
Smaller  calabashes  on  the  wall,  all  in  good  condition.  They 
like  their  big  poi-poi  kokas,  these  people,  although  not  seri- 


152  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ously  enough  to  go  to  the  labour  of  making  new  ones ;  so  the 
well-to-do  hang  on  pretty  closely  to  the  ancestral  vessels,  at 
least  in  Taiohae.  We  were  lucky  in  finding  a  few  persons 
who  were  not  so  well-to-do,  and  when  the  results  of  our  hunt 
were  nested  on  our  floor,  they  totaled  sixteen  bowls.  While 
Tomi's  brother  was  not  anxious,  he  parted  with  two  or  three. 

On  the  way  home  we  bought  some  pareus  of  gorgeous 
designs  and  hues,  to  use  for  the  double  purpose  of  souvenirs 
and  of  packing  fragile  articles.  Our  boxes  will  go  to  San 
Francisco  by  a  barkentine  that  is  expected  in  about  three 
weeks.  Before  we  left  the  store,  Captain  Chabret  came  to 
bid  us  good-bye,  and  then  went  aboard,  for  the  big  mainsail 
of  the  Gauloise  was  already  being  hoisted.  Shortly  we 
noticed  the  boat  returning.  The  captain  hurried  to  the 
store,  and  with  the  Frenchiest  of  bows  and  most  gallant  com- 
pliments presented  "  Madame "  with  a  Paumotan  pearl — a 
lustrous  oval  with  a  slight  crease  around  the  centre  as  if  it 
had  tried  to  be  two  pearls.  My  first  Paumotan  pearl — and  a 
gift  at  that.  And  think — when  I  showed  it  to  Mrs.  Fisher 
at  dinner,  she  cried: 

' '  Why,  do  you  like  those  things  ?     Come  in  here  a  minute ! ' ' 

I  followed  her  into  a  little  room  where  the  Madonna  sat 
at  a  machine  stitching  hand-plaited  bamboo  sennit  into  a  hat 
for  Jack.     Mrs.  Fisher  delved  into  an  old  wood  mosaic  case 
on  a  mahogany  dresser,  and  at  length  brought  to  light  a  tiny 
box.     In  it  was  a  miniature  of  herself  which  she  asked  me 
to  accept,  and  then  she  unrolled  a  wisp  of  tissue-paper  in 
which  lay  five  pearls — all  a  good  match  for  the  one  I  had. 

I 1  You  take  them,  and  welcome, ' '  Mrs.  Fisher  urged.    "  I've 
had  them  a  long  time,  and  my  girl  takes  no  stock  in  them." 

It  did  not  seem  right,  somehow,  to  rob  her  of  her  last 
pearls,  but  nothing  would  do  but  that  I  take  them. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  the  big  ones  I  used  to  have  in 
Tahiti,"  she  mused.  "But  they  went  the  way  of  everything 
else.  I  had  to  sell  them. 

"See,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  the  bed.  "Here's  a  hat 
we've  been  making  for  you." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  153 

It  was  such  a  pretty  thing — a  "sailor"  of  glossy  white 
bamboo  plaiting,  and  about  the  crown  a  hei  of  pale  brown- 
and-white  bird-feathers,  soft  and  fluffy.  It  is  hard  to  keep 
even  with  these  kindly  folk.  The  Madonna  makes  hats  to 
sell,  so  Jack  and  I  had  put  in  an  order  for  one;  but  any 
advantage  to  her  was  promptly  offset  by  this  gift  to  me. 

We  asked  everybody  to  a  final  musicale,  and,  as  before, 
Simeon  squatted  on  the  porch  with  a  bare  brown  foot  on 
each  side  the  machine  and  tried  not  to  look  too  superior  as 
he  reeled  off  disk  after  disk  of  opera,  hymn,  and  sea-chantey. 

The  old  Corsican  reclined  in  his  place  under  the  flaming 
tree  beyond  the  gate.  I  wonder  if  he  misses  the  Tattooed 
Man.  They  must  have  known  each  other  well  as  rival  celeb- 
rities. Did  you  ever  hear  about  the  Tattooed  Man  of 
Taiohae? — although  it  would  be  hard  to  pick  up  a  book  on 
the  South  Seas  that  does  not  mention  his  curious  tragedy. 
He  was  white,  and,  as  I  understand  it,  fell  hopelessly  in  love 
with  a  high  chiefess  in  the  neighbouring  island  of  Uapu.  To 
propitiate  her,  he  resorted  to  the  extreme  measure  of  being 
tattooed — a  matter  of  fine  torture  and  ineradicable  conse- 
quences. The  tattooing  of  the  Marquesans  was  the  finest  in 
Polynesia,  and  the  suffering  from  the  process  so  keen  that 
great  chiefs  have  been  known  to  back  out  before  their  deco- 
ration was  completed.  But  their  incentives  must  have  been 
less  powerful  and  their  nerves  less  firm  than  this  white 
man's — he  was  red-headed,  too,  they  say.  He  was  covered 
from  head  to  foot  with  lacy  designs,  not  omitting  the  fash- 
ionable broad  bars  across  the  face.  And  what  was  his  re- 
ward? The  high-born  damsel  went  into  violent  hysteria  at 
sight  of  him,  frightening  her  relatives  so  that  they  ordered 
him  off  the  premises.  She  could  never  behold  him  without 
laughing,  and  at  last,  discouraged,  he  returned  to  Taiohae, 
where  he  died  an  old  man. 

Tuesday,  December  17,  1907. 

While  the  music  was  going  on  last  evening,  an  attenuated 
grey  figure  angled  through  the  festive  gathering  and  whis- 


154  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

pered  to  Jack.  It  was  Herr  Goeltz ;  and  great  was  the  sur- 
prise, for  no  one  could  remember  ever  having  seen  him  out 
after  dark.  He  took  Jack  away,  and  I  wondered  what  was 
up.  Jack  returned  in  a  little  while,  accompanied  by  a  na- 
tive, the  pair  of  them  bearing  two  wonderfully  carved,  full- 
sized  paddles,  and  a  model  of  an  old-time  Marquesan  war 
canoe.  No  one  knows  exactly  where  or  when  the  canoe  was 
made,  but  it  is  thought  to  be  all  of  a  hundred  years  old.  It 
is  the  handsomest  thing  we  have,  the  hard  wood  dark  with 
age,  and  the  deep-cut  devices  on  its  sides  and  full  figures  at 
each  end  demonstrate  that  the  Marquesans  were  wood  car- 
vers of  no  mean  talent.  Model  though  it  is,  the  canoe  looks 
almost  big  enough  to  use;  but  while  it  is  several  feet  in 
length,  it  represents  the  proportions  of  the  exceedingly  long 
war  canoes,  and  its  narrow  sides  would  pinch  a  child. 
These  things  were  part  of  the  furniture  of  a  little  cottage 
next  the  store,  belonging  to  an  old  captain  who  was  absent, 
and  we  saw  them  one  day  when  the  Norwegian,  who  was 
sleeping  there,  took  us  to  look  at  some  of  the  curiosities  in 
the  place.  The  owner  came  in  on  the  Gauloise  and  re- 
mained over.  Herr  Goletz  heard  that  he  was  feeling  con- 
vivial, took  a  look  in  and  found  him  in  a  mellow  mood,  and 
then  came  after  Jack,  who  in  some  way  wheedled  the  old 
sailor  into  selling. 

So  Martin  has  been  hard  put  to-day  to  make  a  case  to  fit 
the  barbaric  battleship;  but  it  is  done  now,  and  stands  with 
five  other  boxes  as  big,  one  way  or  another.  We  all  worked. 
Wada  came  to  help  Martin,  and  Jack  schemed  to  stow  safely 
the  thirty-five-odd  weighty  bowls  we  have  gleaned  from 
Nuka-Hiva.  As  late  as  this  morning,  two  more  came  in. 

While  the  men  did  the  heavy  work,  I  sat  on  the  floor  and 
carefully  wrapped  the  more  delicate  articles.  On  the  back 
porch,  his  chair  placed  so  he  could  watch  us,  old  "Burned- 
out-Cinders"  sat  mumed  in  a  blanket,  for  his  asthma  was 
bad — poor  old  Taituheu,  with  his  perfect  Greek  face,  banded 
across  with  the  wide  bars  that  were  once  blue  but  have  now 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  156 

turned  green,  as  a  turquoise  turns.  And  Mauani — the  dear 
old  thing  hovered  about  me  all  day,  sometimes  passing  her 
slender  hands,  mittened  with  their  fine  tattoo,  over  the  treas- 
ures we  were  looting  from  her  land;  sometimes  crooning, 
vowel-throated,  in  the  " evading  syllables"  of  her  tongue, 
above  some  carven  koka ;  and  once,  going  out  of  the  room,  she 
came  back  with  hands  full  of  the  flowers  I  call  tuberoses, 
fastening  them,  one  by  one,  through  my  hanging  hair  and 
over  my  ears.  Would  that  I  could  pack  her  in  a  box,  too, 
that  she  might  greet  us  along  with  her  appropriate  furniture 
when  we  go  home  again. 

It  is  said  that  the  nether  limbs  of  the  late  Queen  Vaeheku 
were  noted  for  the  most  marvellous  tattooing  in  all  the  Mar- 
quesas. And  I  imagine  our  friend  Mauani  could  show  some 
traceries  worth  studying,  if  one  may  judge  by  her  feet  and 
ankles,  which  are  covered  with  * '  lace. ' '  But  she  hasn  't  given 
me  a  chance  to  see  any  more,  either  through  modesty  or  mere 
shyness.  It  is  easy  to  see  she  is  very  proud  of  her  tattooing, 
nodding  her  head  in  appreciation  of  its  excellence  when- 
ever one  points  to  it.  I  notice  that  she  also  uses  the  word 
" tattoo"  in  reference  to  wood-carving,  turtle-shell-carving — 
any  sort  of  ornamental  scratching. 

The  only  excitements  of  special  moment  to-day  were  the 
disappearance  of  a  young  and  exceedingly  agile  centipede 
(probably  brought  into  the  house  with  the  dry  banana-leaves 
used  in  padding)  into  a  full  packing-case;  and  the  arrival  of 
the  schooner  Roberta  from  Tahiti.  She  is  much  larger  than 
the  Gauloise,  and  looks  quite  a  ship  alongside  the  Snark. 
It  is  a  little  world,  this!  Why,  years  ago,  when  Jack  was 
seal-hunting  off  the  coast  of  Japan  on  the  Sophie  Sutherland, 
the  Roberta,  then  the  Herman,  was  working  in  the  same 
waters;  and  Jack  used  to  go  "gamming"  aboard  of  her, 
pleasant  evenings  on  the  sealing-grounds.  This  particular 
vessel,  of  all  others,  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  French  Com- 
pany, away  down  here  in  the  South  Seas,  and  anchored 
smack  alongside  Jack's  own  boat.  What  next? 


156  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

December  18,  1907. 

We  hated  to  get  up  this  our  last  morning  in  the  Mar 
quesas.  I  wish  we  were  going  to  "Yonder  Far"  (Hiva-Oa] 
and  others  of  the  group;  but  Jack  is  anxious  to  receive  hii 
mail  at  Tahiti,  and  we  must  hurry  hence.  It  is  going  or 
three  months  since  we  saw  home  letters  or  newspapers. 

We  lay  in  our  netted  beds,  conscious  of  the  sweet-scentec 
air,  and  looking  up  the  eastern  battlement  of  the  bay,  wit! 
the  old  fort  on  tiny  '  *  Calaboose  Hill ' '  in  the  foreground,  al 
woven  into  marvellous  tapestry  by  the  straight  lines  of  i 
heavy  tropic  shower.  The  rain  turned  from  diamond  t( 
rose-tourmaline  and  lastly  into  opal  and  gold  as  the  sur 
spilled  rainbows  into  it,  and  then  the  downfall  stopped  as 
quickly  as  it  had  begun,  startling  us  with  the  sudden  cessa- 
tion of  bombardment  on  our  iron  roof.  I  heard  Jack  quot- 
ing: 

"You  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  off-shore  wind, 

And  the  thresh  of  the  deep-sea  rain ; 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long?  how  long? 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again!" 

I  saw  his  mottled  face  and  hands  as  he  emerged  from  the 
mosquito-netting,  and  felt  the  burning  irritation  of  my  owr 
outraged  skin,  and  was  glad,  after  all,  of  the  prospect  oJ 
getting  to  sea  once  more,  away  from  the  wretched  nau-naus 
Well  are  they  named — not  yet-yet,  nor  then-then,  but  right 
now-now,  with  past  and  future  all  welded  into  the  insistent 
existent  moment.  If  Nuka-Hiva  never  sees  us  again,  it  maj 
be  put  down  to  the  nau-naus. 

It  did  not  take  very  long  to  make  the  Snark  habitable  once 
more.  A  trip  or  so  of  our  lifeboat  (the  launch  engine  has 
never  worked  since  the  morning  we  arrived)  returned  al 
belongings,  and  Jack  and  I  went  aboard  and  stowed  oui 
personal  things. 

In  settling  up  accounts  at  the  Societe  store,  Mr.  Kreiecli 
left  out  the  item  of  house-rent,  saying  that  he  was  only  toe 
glad  to  do  this  for  our  entertainment.  And  he  had  two  men 
raining  cocoanuts  all  morning  from  the  big  palms  next  the 


Double  Canoe,  Bora-Bora 


"Porpoises!" 


. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  157 

store,  and  others  bringing  in  oranges  and  limes,  that  we 
might  have  our  favourite  drinks  all  the  way  to  Tahiti. 

It  was  hard  to  big  Mrs.  Fisher  good-bye.  There  is  some- 
thing infinitely  lonely  about  her  patient  life.  Our  final  sight 
of  her  was  on  her  low-eaved  veranda,  smiling  sadly,  with  that 
wistful  grandchild  clinging  to  her  skirts  and  weeping  heart- 
brokenly  at  he  knew  not  what. 

Tide  would  not  serve  until  about  ten  in  the  evening,  and 
there  was  no  need  of  going  aboard  early.  So  we  sat  on  the 
porch  of  the  empty  club-house  that  once  echoed  to  Robert 
Louis'  voice,  and  for  the  last  time  watched  the  sun  go  down 
behind  the  twilight  crags,  in  the  foreground  the  fruit  of  our 
mango  trees  and  the  acacia  fronds  of  the  flamboyante  sil- 
houetted against  a  palpitant  sky. 

Tahia  came  and  sat  at  my  feet,  laying  on  my  knees  an 
armful  of  roses  and  a  circlet  of  white  blossoms  on  my  hair; 
and  a  Tahitian  girl  brought  more  roses  and  a  wondrous  hat 
she  had  made,  even  the  flower-trimming  of  which  was  of 
glistening  white  bamboo. 

We  spoke  low  in  the  dusky  quiet,  and  from  the  water  heard 
with  a  thrill  the  shadowy  Snark  heaving  her  anchor  short. 
Sitting  safely  in  this  peaceful  land,  among  the  whispering 
of  cocoanut  palms  and  great  banana  leaves,  I  felt  vaguely 
averse  to  embarking  again  on  the  unrestful  ocean,  and  visions 
of  the  infamous  Paumotus  would  creep  in  between  my  eyes 
and  the  storied  shores  of  Taiohae.  Then  I  remembered  that 
fear  is  only  a  word  to  us  of  the  Snark — a  word  without  mean- 
ing. And  I  also  remembered  the  nau-naus.  So  I  was  all- 
too-glad  when  Jack  rose  and  said  it  was  time  to  start — 
adventure  leaping  afresh  in  my  heart. 

The  going  out  was  lovely  as  a  dream.  We  slipped  along 
in  the  smooth  dark  tide  with  a  fair  light  wind,  while  plaintive 
little  night-voices  from  the  hills  stirred  the  stillness.  The 
moon  literally  burst  from  an  inky  cloud  at  the  edge  of  a 
cliff,  and  the  misty  ridges  round  about  the  bay  lay  like  gar- 
lands looped  upon  the  mountainsides. 


158  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Our  German  friends  saluted  with  a  shot  from  shore, 
and  "Hoist  that  spanker!"  Captain  Warren  cried  from  for- 
ward, while  Jack,  at  the  wheel,  let  go  the  single  stop  that 
held  the  willing  mizzen  wing. 

How  different  this,  from  that  dark  night  we  entered. 
Then  we  could  only  feel  our  way;  to-night  we  were  lit 
by  moon  and  stars  and  snowy  reflecting  clouds,  fans  of  moon- 
rays  upon  the  mountains,  and  growing  patches  of  light  upon 
the  water — all  the  paint  and  tinsel  of  night  under  the  South- 
ern Cross. 

Never  was  I  so  happy,  I  do  believe,  as  on  this  dazzling 
night,  when  the  rush  and  muffled  roar  of  the  outside  break- 
ers came  to  our  hearing  and  we  felt  the  Snark  taking  the 
first  swells.  At  last  I  know  it — the  lure  of  the  sea,  the  real 
glamour  of  it,  a  thing  that  can  no  more  be  explained  than 
Love,  or  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  universe. 

And  with  the  happiness  came  a  sense  of  homesickness ;  but 
that  often  comes  in  my  fairest  hour  of  this  wild  free  life  that 
is  mine,  with  its  great  spaces  and  flowing  wind  and  rolling 
waters. 

To  the  nestling  night-pipings  of  sea-birds  above  the  break- 
ers, we  passed  out  the  sea-gate  of  Taiohae  and  lost  the  ' '  fixed 
red  light"  on  Calaboose  Hill.  The  spinnaker  was  set,  and 
blossomed  and  swelled  like  a  great  white  petal  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"The  old  girl!"  Jack  said  affectionately,  giving  her  a 
spoke  as  she  foamed  ahead  in  the  jewelled  flood. 

"0  happy!  Happy!  Happy !' r joyed  Nakata,  executing 
a  queer  little  Japanese  pirouette,  with  his  hands  full  of 
glasses  of  lemonade. 

"Good-bye,  Typee,"  we  saluted,  as  we  drank  and  looked 
back  on  the  capes,  showing  grey  in  the  moonlight  like  grim 
heroic  statues  of  monster  mastiffs. 

The  ghostly  flowers  piled  on  the  bosun's  locker  sent  out 
unearthly  sweetness,  and  the  off-shore  wind  came  laden  with 
breath  of  cocoanut  and  cassi.  I  know  I  am  growing  to  be 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  159 

like  the  man  who  so  loved  the  tropics  that  he  feared  his  blood 
was  purple. 

Good-bye,  Typee,  and  incredible  Nuka-Hiva,  the  first  fairy 
port  of  our  southern  dreams.  And  low  lie  the  atolls  before 
us,  and  that  mystic  lagoon  of  tinted  coral  and  rainbow  life. 


At  sea,  Marquesas  to  Society  Islands, 
Thursday,  December  19,  1907. 

This  has  been  one  of  our  ideal  days  at  sea,  after  a  restful 
night  during  which  the  Snark  logged  sixty  knots.  It  is  good 
once  more  to  feel  the  ocean  crooking  its  sleek  back  under  our 
iron  keel.  As  yet  there  are  no  warnings  of  Paumotan  vicissi- 
tudes, although  Herrmann  has  been  looking  for  a  change, 
and  talked  so  much  about  it  that  the  captain  told  him  testily 
not  to  count  his  squalls  before  they  were  hatched.  The  wind 
is  fair,  the  waves  most  comfortable,  and  a  spirit  of  indus- 
trious prosperity  pervades  the  yacht. 

While  Jack  and  I  read  our  astronomy,  the  deck  is  being 
gone  over  with  clean  sand  from  Taiohae  beach,  and  painted 
stanchions  under  the  rail  scraped  and  oiled  to  show  the 
natural  oak.  Chickens  in  a  coop  for'ard  keep  up  a  queru- 
lous clatter,  and  the  captain  and  Herrmann  have  inter- 
minable discussions  concerning  obvious  trifles.  It  seems  to 
me  from  my  slight  experience  with  sailors,  that  their  minds 
are  very  immature.  They  become  utterly  absorbed  in 
harangues  about  unimportant  details  that  could  be  disposed 
of  in  two  sentences  by  the  average  adult.  These  differences 
between  Captain  Warren  and  Herrmann  afford  us  much 
secret  amusement.  The  skipper  is  irascible,  Herrmann  ob- 
stinate ;  and  when  they  have  parted  in  the  wrath  and  despair 
of  continued  misunderstanding  (the  captain  muttering  "The 
bally  squarehead!")  Herrmann  can  be  heard  complaining 
(while  the  lady  on  his  arm  oscillates  sympathetically),  "The 
captain  is  of  too  excited.  He  gets  as  too  excited  already." 

We  used  up  our  last  daylight  by  reading  from  Conrad's 


160  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

The  End  of  the  Tether,  Jack  with  the  book,  while  the  rest  of 
us  lay  or  sat  around  the  cockpit  watching  the  burning  of  a 
golden  city  on  the  sunset  horizon,  beyond  the  rose  and 
amethyst  swell  of  the  sea. 

Monday,  December  23,  1907. 

Before  I  proceed  further,  here  is  a  quotation  from 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  In  the  South  Seas,  as  an  earnest  of 
what  one  may  expect  in  this  region  of  lagoons : 

"...  the  atoll ;  a  thing  of  problematic  origin  and  history, 
the  reputed  creature  of  an  insect  apparently  unidentified; 
rudely  annular  in  shape;  enclosing  a  lagoon;  rarely  extend- 
ing beyond  a  quarter  of  a  mile  at  its  chief  width ;  often  rising 
at  its  highest  point  to  less  than  the  stature  of  a  man — man 
himself,  the  rat  and  the  land  crab,  its  chief  inhabitants ;  not 
more  variously  supplied  with  plants ;  and  offering  to  the  eye, 
even  when  perfect,  only  a  ring  of  glittering  beach  and  ver- 
dant foliage,  enclosing  and  enclosed  by  the  blue  sea. 

"In  no  quarter  are  the  atolls  so  thickly  congregated,  in 
none  are  they  so  varied  in  size  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 
and  in  none  is  navigation  so  beset  with  perils,  as  in  that 
archipelago  that  we  were  now  to  thread.  The  huge  system 
of  the  trades  is,  for  some  reason,  quite  confounded  by  this 
multiplicity  of  reefs ;  the  wind  intermits,  squalls  are  frequent 
from  the  west  and  southwest,  hurricanes  are  known.  The 
currents  are,  besides,  inextricably  intermixed;  dead  reckon- 
ing becomes  a  farce;  the  charts  are  not  to  be  trusted;  and 
such  is  the  number  and  similarity  of  these  islands  that,  even 
when  you  have  picked  one  up,  you  may  be  none  the  wiser. 
The  reputation  of  the  place  is  consequently  infamous;  in- 
surance officers  exclude  it  from  their  field,  and  it  was  not 
without  misgiving  that  my  captain  risked  the  Casco  in  such 
waters.  I  believe,  indeed,  it  is  almost  understood  that  yachts 
are  to  avoid  this  baffling  archipelago;  and  it  required  all  my 
instances — and  all  Mr.  Otis's  (the  captain)  private  taste 
for  adventure — to  deflect  our  course  across  its  midst. 

"For  a  few  days  we  sailed  with  a  steady  trade,  and  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  161 

steady  westerly  current  setting  us  to  leeward;  and  toward 
sundown  of  the  7th  it  was  supposed  we  should  have  sighted 
Takaroa,  one  of  Cook's  so-called  King  George  Islands.  The 
sun  sets;  yet  a  while  longer  the  old  moon — semi-brilliant 
herself,  and  with  a  silver  belly,  which  was  her  successor — 
sailed  among  gathering  clouds ;  she,  too,  deserted  us ;  stars  of 
every  degree  of  sheen,  and  clouds  of  every  variety  of  form 
disputed  the  sub-lustrous  night;  and  still  we  gazed  in  vain 
for  Takaroa.  The  mate  stood  on  the  bowsprit,  his  grey 
figure  slashing  up  and  down  against  the  stars.  ...  At 
length  the  mate  himself  despaired,  scrambled  on  board  again 
.  .  .  and  announced  that  we  had  missed  our  destination. 
He  was  the  only  man  of  practice  in  these  waters,  our  sole 
pilot,  shipped  for  that  end  at  Taiohae.  If  he  declared  we 
had  missed  Takaroa,  it  was  not  for  us  to  quarrel  with  the 
fact,  and,  if  we  could,  to  explain  it.  We  had  certainly  run 
down  our  southing.  Our  canted  wake  upon  the  sea  and. 
our  .  .  .  course  upon  the  chart  both  testified  with  no  less 
certainty  to  an  impetuous  westward  current.  We  had  no 
choice  but  to  conclude  we  were  again  set  down  to  lee- 
ward .  .  ." 

They  sighted  an  island  in  the  morning,  not  the  one  they 
were  looking  for,  but  Tikei,  "one  of  Roggewein's  so-called 
Pernicious  Islands."  This  seemed  entirely  out  of  the 
question,  and  "at  that  rate,  instead  of  drifting  to  the  west, 
we  must  have  fetched  up  thirty  miles  to  windward.  And 
how  about  the  current?  It  had  been  setting  us  down,  by 
observation  all  these  days:  by  the  deflection  of  our  wake,  it 
should  be  setting  us  down  that  moment.  When  had  it 
stopped?  When  had  it  begun?  And  what  kind  of  torrent 
was  that  which  had  swept  us  eastward  in  the  interval?  To 
these  questions,  so  typical  of  navigation  in  that  range  of 
isles,  I  have  no  answer.  Such  were  at  least  our  facts ;  Tikei 
our  island  turned  out  to  be ;  and  it  was  our  first  experience  of 
the  dangerous  archipelago,  to  make  our  landfall  thirty  miles 
out." 

Mine   are   the   italics.     And   ours   is  the   expected.     On 


162  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK 

Friday  it  began  to  squall  and  continued  off  and  on  all 
day,  with  a  lively  blow  once  during  the  night.  We  were 
obliged  to  work  sweltering  in  our  staterooms  with  skylights 
screwed  down.  In  a  lull  toward  evening,  Jack  was  lying  on 
the  life-boat  cover,  reading,  when  the  main-boom  jibed  over, 
the  sheet  catching  his  head  and  giving  it  a  wrench  that  luckily 
did  not  break  his  neck.  He  is  still  lame  in  neck  and  shoul- 
ders. That  night,  when  the  drowning  moon  struggled  out  of 
the  watery  vapours  astern,  there  appeared  before  us  a  per- 
fect lunar  rainbow,  the  first  Jack  and  I  have  ever  seen.  It 
only  differed  from  a  sun-bow  in  its  subdued  tones.  Next,  a 
flying-fish  came  right  down  into  the  cabin,  looking  like  an 
offshoot  of  the  rainbow. 

Oh,  it  is  classic  Paumotan  weather!  Saturday  the  fair 
wind  broke  off,  and  it  blew  from  the  southwest,  with  a  big 
swell,  and  we  had  no  rest  for  rolling.  The  captain  took  off 
the  jib  toward  evening,  and  at  midnight,  in  a  nasty  squall, 
lowered  the  mizzen.  "We  have  been  averaging  over  a  hun- 
dred knots  daily,  and  on  Sunday  night,  in  a  tremendous 
black  thunder-squall  that  spit  forked  fire,  we  drove  through 
the  water  at  ten  knots.  We  sighted  a  bark  that  afternoon, 
miles  ahead,  going  the  same  way  with  the  Snark,  but  soon 
lost  her. 

No  chronometer  nor  latitude  sights  have  been  possible  for 
two  days,  and  we  are  wondering  how  near  we  shall  find  our- 
selves to  Eangiroa  to-morrow,  when  we  should  be  picking 
it  up.  To-day  has  been  squally  and  overcast.  At  9  A.  M., 
we  should  have  been  abreast  of  the  small  atoll  Ahii  to  the 
southwest,  but  were  unable  to  pick  it  up.  Heavy  squall  at 
noon — so  heavy  that  the  rain  drove  through  raincoats,  and 
even  got  below  in  spite  of  us.  Followed  a  dead  lull,  in 
which  the  galley-stove  smoked  for  want  of  draught.  Next 
the  wind  slapped  out  of  the  north  for  a  change.  In  the 
afternoon  there  was  a  much  stiffer  blow  that  kept  on  so 
steadily  that  the  captain  thought  it  might  be  the  beginning 
of  a  gale,  although  the  glass  was  normal.  Never  did  I  see 
such  a  downfall  of  water.  The  flat-beaten  sea  smoked  with 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  163 

its  violence,  and  every  line  of  rain  left  a  white  streak  on  the 
grey  water. 

We  ate  our  fried  fowl  and  taro  in  the  cabin,  without  re- 
moving our  seaboots,  and  solaced  the  muggy  hours  of  work 
below  with  many  drinks  of  cocoanut  water  and  orange  juice. 

Nakata  was  laid  up  with  a  headache  in  the  afternoon — 
the  first  time  we  have  ever  seen  him  indisposed — and  when 
he  awoke  after  an  hour's  nap,  we  had  great  sport  trying  to 
convince  him  that  he  had  slept  the  clock  around. 


Off  the  Dangerous  Archipelago, 
Tuesday,  December  24,  1907. 

At  half  past  four  I  came  on  deck  in  the  wan  moonlight. 
Jack  was  forward,  on  watch  for  Rangiroa.  It  was  an 
anxious  time,  for  these  elusive  atolls  are  but  a  few  feet  high, 
and  Rangiroa  being  sixty  miles  long,  we  might,  with  light 
wind  and  strong  current,  drift  too  close.  We  thought  of 
Takaroa,  not  far  away,  where  the  wreck  of  the  British  ship 
County  of  Roxburgh  still  holds  to  the  reef. 

I  notice  in  the  Sailing  Directions  that  when  Le  Maire  and 
Schouten  discovered  Rangiroa  in  1616,  they  were  actually 
driven  from  the  lagoon  by  "  small  black  flies " — the  nau-naus, 
of  course.  They  named  the  atoll  Fly  (Vliegen)  Island.  As 
no  one  now  mentions  these  sandflies  as  a  feature  of  Rangiroa, 
we  must  conclude  they  were  all  blown  off  to  Nuka-Hiva ! 

Every  one  will  agree  that  I  started  this  day  wrong.  In 
the  first  place,  I  rose  too  early,  thereby  losing  sleep;  and 
when  I  went  below  to  wash  for  breakfast,  I  took  down  the 
wrong  bottle,  deluged  my  toothbrush  with  strong  ammonia, 
and  somehow  missed  the  warning  fumes  until  I  started  brush- 
ing my  teeth  with  the  fiery  stuff. 

All  morning  the  captain  tried  to  get  a  chronometer  sight, 
but  the  sun  gave  him  no  chance.  A  little  after  nine  the  sky 
lifted  to  the  southeast  and  we  saw  a  line  of  cocoanut  palms. 
"Pincushion,"  observed  Nakata;  and  at  that  distance  they 
did  look  for  all  the  world  like  pins. 


164  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

But  what  island  could  it  be  ?  It  did  not  seem  to  tally  with 
the  description  of  Rangiroa — there  wasn't  enough  of  it. 
Captain  Warren  made  up  his  mind  that  an  easterly  current 
had  swept  us  so  far  east  that  these  trees  were  on  the  next 
atoll  eastward  of  Rangiroa.  So  he  altered  the  course  to 
about  southwest  to  pick  up  Rangiroa.  He  was  rewarded  a 
little  later  by  another  pin-cushion  just  where  he  wanted  his 
island  to  be,  and  great  was  the  general  relief. 

It  was  a  marvellous  thing  to  see  that  atoll  rise  from  the  sea 
as  we  approached,  and  from  moment  to  moment  develop  in 
intensity  like  a  plate  in  the  dark-room.  The  feathered  palms 
were  stepped  in  a  strand  of  pale-pink  sand,  against  which 
combed  a  surf  of  every  vivid  shade  of  blue  and  green.  It 
burst  high  and  white  against  the  rosy  barrier,  for  there  was 
a  considerable  swell  and  what  Jack  insisted  was  a  westerly 
current,  in  spite  of  Captain  Warren's  contention. 

Still,  we  were  almost  convinced  it  was  Rangiroa,  and  it  re- 
mained only  for  us  to  find  Avatoru,  the  northwest  passage 
indicated  on  the  chart,  con  our  way  in,  and  anchor  in  the 
still,  sunny  waters  of  the  fairy  lagoon  with  its  harlequin 
fishes.  It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  shone  only  within  that 
charmed  circle. 

The  captain  himself  climbed  to  the  masthead  and  presently 
called  down  that  he  saw  the  entrance.  Fifteen  minutes  later 
he  descended  with  sour  and  anxious  countenance.  His  en- 
trance was  after  all  only  a  low  part  of  the  reef,  with  the 
surf  breaching  clear  across. 

Again  we  sheered  off  and  followed  along  that  puzzling 
island.  And  the  more  we  scrutinised,  the  less  it  tallied  with 
the  Sailing  Directions  and  the  chart.  The  captain  fumed 
and  fussed,  but  held  to  his  opinion  that  it  was  Rangiroa. 
Then  something  showed  on  the  edge  of  the  reef  that  looked 
like  the  wreck  of  a  ship,  and  we  wondered  if  it  could  be  the 
County  of  Roxburgh,  and  that  we  had  inexplicably  happened 
upon  Takaroa.  Coming  closer,  we  saw  only  some  blackened 
boulders  of  coral. 

Jack  began  to  look  about  with  purpose.     Day  was  wearing, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  165 

weather  threatening,  and  something  had  to  be  done.  He 
found  that  we  were  now  due  west  of  the  island,  and  since  we 
had  skirted  the  entire  northwest  coast  and  found  no  passage, 
it  could  not  be  Rangiroa,  which  has  two  well-defined  northern 
entrances.  Therefore  he  reasoned  that  the  land  we  had 
sighted  in  the  morning  to  the  southeast  was  Rangiroa,  and 
this  atoll  we  had  coasted  all  day  must  be  Tikahau,  the  next 
island  northwest  of  Rangiroa.  Jack  himself  got  two  after- 
noon sights,  and  asked  the  captain  to  work  them  up ;  but  the 
man  seemed  to  have  gone  completely  to  pieces,  and  would 
not  even  make  an  attempt.  So  Jack  did  it,  charted  a  Sumner 
Line,  and  confirmed  his  opinion  of  our  whereabouts;  but 
Captain  Warren  refused  to  accept  his  conclusions.  He 
simply  would  not  admit  that  he  had  gone  thirty  miles  wrong, 
even  if  Stevenson's  captain  and  a  special  pilot,  with  days  of 
successful  sight-taking  behind  them,  as  well  as  countless  other 
skippers,  had  been  quite  as  unavoidably  unfortunate.  Also, 
he  clung  to  that  eastern  current  of  his,  although  all  signs 
pointed  to  the  contrary. 

We  now  steered  north,  for  the  sky  was  stormy  and  wind 
shifty,  and  it  would  not  do  to  spend  the  night  too  near  that 
reef.  Jack  said  he  thought  he  would  go  "butting  around  for 
a  day  or  two"  and  find  Rangiroa  in  spite  of  torrential  tides 
and  other  adverse  elements.  But  no  one  was  enthusiastic, 
and  he  went  below  and  studied  the  chart  some  more.  When 
he  came  up,  he  walked  aft  to  where  the  rest  of  us  were  sitting, 
looked  back  thoughtfully  at  the  receding  "  pin-cushion, "  and 
said  brightly: 

"Well,  Captain  Warren,  shall  we  put  about  for  Tahiti ?" 
— and  to  me,  "What  do  you  say,  Mate?" 

Everybody  cheered,  even  I,  for  I  was  as  tired  as  any  one, 
hunting  for  needles — or  pins — in  this  aqueous  haystack,  in 
such  criminal  weather. 

So  the  course  was  laid  to  pass  between  Tikahau  and  a  little 
island  to  the  northwest  of  it,  Matahiva,  and  peace  descended 
upon  the  Snark.  Next  time  Jack  came  on  deck  he  made  all 
hands  a  Christmas  present — all  but  me.  We  had  nothing  for 


166  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

each  other  but  each  other ;  and,  besides,  we  make  our  gifts  at 
any  and  all  times,  instead  of  upon  conventional  occasions. 

Jack  had  been  suffering  from  an  increasing  headache,  and 
before  supper  it  sent  him  blind  to  his  bunk.  .  .  .  And  now, 
standing  up  and  writing  on  my  high  bunk,  I  wonder  if 
woman  ever  before  spent  exactly  such  a  Christmas  Eve.  I 
have  soothed  my  sick  Mate  to  sleep,  and  feel  very  much 
alone,  for  the  thunder  and  lightning  are  terrific,  the  water 
rough,  the  wind  roaring — and  the  white-speck  boat  only 
forty-five  feet  long.  The  captain  is  on  deck  and  so  are  the 
men,  including  the  cook,  for  squalls  are  stiff  and  frequent 
and  there  cannot  be  too  many  nor  too  keen  eyes  to  keep  a 
lookout  in  a  night  and  place  like  this,  nor  too  many  hands 
to  obey  orders. 

Just  now  a  heavy  blow  shook  the  bows.  I  was  certain  we 
had  struck,  for  never  had  a  wave  dealt  such  a  shock  to  the 
Snark.  I  rushed  on  deck,  blinded  by  the  blue  sheets  of 
lightning,  and  somehow  managed  to  reach  the  cockpit  where 
Captain  Warren  was  sitting  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. No,  he  had  neither  felt  nor  heard  anything.  It 
made  me  appear  rather  foolish,  and  I  crept  below  again.  I 
am  reminded  of  the  dry  and  comforting  lines: 

"The  heavens  roll  above  me ;  and.  the  sea 
Swallows  and  licks  its  wet  lips  over  me." 


Christmas  Day,  1907. 

And  it's  "Merry  Christmas"  from  stem  to  stern  this  day. 
The  sun  came  up  at  the  proper  hour  for  a  sun  to  rise,  the 
natural  phenomenon  of  the  southeast  trade  set  in,  and  there 
is  a  general  aspect  of  restored  poise  in  the  universe,  except 
that  now,  southwest  of  Kangiroa,  the  fickle  Paumotan  tide  is 
running  east !  Well  did  Charles  Warren  Stoddard  observe : 
' '  If  you  would  have  adventure,  the  real  article  and  plenty  of 
it,  make  your  will,  bid  farewell  to  home  and  friends,  and 
embark  for  the  Paumotus. ' ' 

When  I  opened  my  door  this  morning,  Nakata,  head  cocked 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  167 

on  one  side  like  a  bird,  contemplated  me  with  that  elfish 
sweetness  of  his,  and,  after  giving  me  full  and  respectful  time 
to  spring  my  l  i  Merry  Christmas, ' '  himself  proffered  a  timid 
"Missis-n — Merry  Christmas!"  Wada,  wide  of  smile  in 
the  galley  doorway,,  repeated  the  greeting.  I  went  on 
deck  determined  not  to  be  caught  again,  and  nailed  Martin 
and  Herrmann ;  but  Jack  and  the  captain  spied  me  from  the 
cockpit  while  I  was  busy  with  the  first  pair,  and  shouted  in 
unison. 

Poor  Jack  encountered  hard  luck  again  this  morning — and 
fortunately  a  hard  head.  At  four,  his  headache  slept  off,  he 
was  coming  up  to  take  his  watch,  when  Herrmann,  not  seeing 
him  in  the  darkness,  jammed  down  the  heavy  teak  compan- 
ionway  covers  and  caught  him  squarely  on  the  crown.  It 
will  never  do  for  me,  a  sailor,  not  to  be  superstitious  enough 
to  wonder  what  Jack's  third  accident  will  be.  He  is  having 
a  holiday,  however,  and  it  will  do  him  good.  But  he  joined 
the  captain  in  taking  chronometer  sights,  both  men  working 
them  out  with  assumed  latitudes,  and  differing  only  a  mile  in 
their  results.  These  proved  Jack's  correctness  the  day  be- 
fore, and  the  captain  said  Jack's  observations  this  morning 
were  perfect.  A  good  noon  observation  dispelled  all  uncer- 
tainty about  our  position,  and  we  should  sight  Tahiti  day 
after  to-morrow.  It  is  very  fascinating,  this  finding  one's 
position  on  the  world  of  waters,  and  I  often  wish  I  had  time 
to  study  the  science  of  it.  I'd  rather  see  my  husband  navi- 
gate and  sail  his  boat  than  write  the  greatest  book  ever  writ- 
ten. It  is  living  life,  whereas  writing  is  but  recording  life, 
for  the  most  part.  Jack  himself  always  insists  that  he 
wishes  he  had  been  a  prizefighter ! 

All  day  the  sunshine  has  scorched  down  from  a  broken  sky, 
and  I  cannot  express  the  comfort  it  spread  throughout  the 
little  ship.  Everything  moulds  so  quickly  when  the  sky  is 
over-cast,  and  rainy  days  have  made  cabin  and  staterooms 
stale  and  unwholesome.  It  is  hard  enough  to  keep  even  with 
must  and  rust  in  good  weather.  I  was  caught  on  deck  by 
rain  the  second  night  out  from  Taiohae,  and  my  blankets 


168  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sadly  needed  drying.  The  skylights  have  been  raised  straight 
up,  and  drawers  and  lockers  below  opened  wide  to  sun  and 
air. 

The  men  have  been  tired  and  sleepy,  after  a  wakeful  night 
of  squalls.  In  one  especially  ugly  one,  the  mainsheet  parted, 
worn  by  unpreventable  friction  in  calms  north  of  the  Line 
when  the  boom  slatted  back  and  forth  in  defiance  of  tackles. 

Wada's  Christmas  dinner  was  a  brilliant  success.  There 
was  tinned  soup,  followed  by  shrimp  fritters,  roast  chicken, 
fried  taro,  tinned  corn,  salad  of  tinned  French  beans  and 
mayonnaise ;  and  for  dessert  a  luscious  dish  of  sliced  oranges 
and  bananas  grated  over  with  fresh  cocoanut.  Martin  and 
the  captain  contributed  a  quart  of  champagne  they  had 
brought  from  Taiohae  to  surprise  us. 

Nakata  emerged  on  deck  about  two  o'clock,  looking  well- 
filled  and  contented,  having  banqueted  on  roast  brown  chicken 
and  plump  white  kernels  of  rice.  He  walked  to  the  fringe 
of  bananas  swinging  above  the  port  rail,  contemplated  it 
desirefully,  selected  two  large  ones,  and  went  forward  to  eat 
them  at  leisure.  Jack  offered  a  dollar  if  he  would  eat  twenty 
bananas  in  the  space  of  half  an  hour.  Nakata  could  not  see 
why  Jack  wanted  to  lose  money,  but  wasted  no  time  in  helping 
him  do  so.  He  took  a  half-dozen  bananas,  squatted  on  the 
deck,  and  began  to  assimilate  them  in  judicious,  well-masti- 
cated mouthfuls.  The  six  disappeared,  Nakata  stood  up  and 
shook  himself,  took  a  further  half-dozen  from  Jack,  looked 
critically  at  their  size,  then  at  the  fringe  and  back  to  Jack, 
and  requested  that  he  be  allowed  to  select  his  own  fruit.  But 
Jack  held  him  to  that  already  picked,  so  he  peeled  the  seventh 
and  began  on  it,  his  eyes  passing  from  one  to  another  of  us 
with  calm,  unblinking,  Asiatic  certitude.  By  the  ninth  he 
was  sitting  again,  leaning  against  the  rail  and  gurgling  an 
occasional  "0  my!"  or  imploring  smaller  fruit,  his  eye  no 
less  calm,  but  wandering  more  frequently  to  the  clock. 
Once  in  a  while  he  would  break  off  to  laugh  at  himself,  and 
lay  a  caressing  hand  upon  his  distended  pod.  "Allee  same 
chicken-crop,"  he  giggled  stuffily. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  169 

By  the  eleventh  banana  his  laugh  was  very  wheezy  and  his 
eye  less  certain.  He  gazed  long  at  the  twelfth  before  tackling 
it,  and  half-way  through  rose  stiffly  and  carefully  and  threw 
the  remaining  half  overboard,  declaring  with  amiable  finality, 
"No  can!"  He  explained  in  pantomime  that  he  was  like  a 
cup  into  which  he  had  been  trying  to  force  the  contents  of 
two  cups,  and  no  raising  of  stakes  and  lengthening  of 
time,  even  to  twenty  dollars  and  another  half-hour,  could 
tempt  him.  He  leaned  painfully  over,  picked  up  the  re- 
maining eight  bananas  and  ranged  them  across  his  body  to 
show,  by  comparing  them  with  his  stomach,  how  unreasonable 
we  were.  As  he  went  down  the  companionway,  he  flashed 
back  at  us  one  of  his  inextinguishable  grins. 

"He  et  so  much  as  it  can  be,"  Herrmann  commented,  with 
his  jocund  smile. 

Our  way  is  now  clear  except  for  two  islands.  One  of 
these,  Makatea,  lying  in  latitude  15°  48'  South,  longitude 
148°  13'  West,  we  should  sight  late  to-day.  It  is  an  uplifted 
atoll  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  revealing  its  coral 
formation  distinctly  and  having  an  encircling  reef  of  coral 
in  turn,  but  no  entrance  for  large  vessels.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  visit,  for  there  is  something  alluring  about  the 
idea  of  such  an  isolated  isle,  inhabited  by  a  few  Polynesians. 
Visible  for  twenty  miles,  there  is  no  danger  of  our  running 
upon  it  unawares.  The  second  island,  Tetuaroa — or  group 
of  islets  enclosed  in  a  reef  thirty  miles  in  circuit — is  farther 
on. 

Thus,  we  have  almost  sunk  the  mysterious  Danger- 
ous Archipelago.  While  it  means  relief  to  have  run  around 
behind  such  weather,  one  can  but  regret  not  having  entered 
just  one  coral  sea-girt  ring — not  to  have  bartered  for  one 
"pale  sea-tear,"  one  pearl  just  risen  from  its  coral  bed. 
Their  very  names  make  one  long  to  know  them — these  thou- 
sand miles  of  rosy  coral  wreaths  flung  northwest  to  southeast 
across  the  blue  Pacific,  with  Pitcairn,  high  Pitcairn  of  Bounty 
fame,  geographically  if  not  geologically  belonging  to  the 


170  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

group,  bringing  up  the  southernmost  end.  Are  they  not 
enticing,  these  names  ?  Listen — Mangareva,  Oeno,  Mururea, 
Ahunui,  Vahitahi,  Negno-Nengo — and  Fakarava,  where 
Stevenson  sailed  in. 

And  the  people  of  varied  origin  that  live  under  the  cocoa- 
nut  palms  and  fish  for  pearls  in  the  lovely  lagoons — think  of 
seeing  those  wonderful  native  divers.  It  is  said  the  natives 
are  very  hospitable,  most  of  them  resembling  the  Tahitians, 
although  formerly  of  a  more  warlike  character  than  the 
Tahitians  ever  were,  so  that  King  Pomare  I  of  Tahiti  had 
his  body-guard  chosen  from  among  them. 

But  Jack  comes  to  me  and  says  that  many  are  the  pearl 
atolls  ahead  of  us  in  the  southern  seas,  on  to  the  west,  and 
that  my  lap  shall  be  filled  with  pearls  if  I  will  only  wait ! 


Off  Tahiti, 
Thursday,  December  26,  1907. 

Makatea  was  passed  in  the  night,  but  no  one  saw  it,  as 
there  were  squalls  all  around.  We  glimpsed  Tetuaroa  this 
morning.  At  ten  we  were  about  forty  miles  off  Tahiti,  and 
the  captain  will  sail  until  he  picks  up  Point  Venus,  the 
northernmost  jut  of  the  island,  then  hold  back  and  forth  all 
night  and  at  daylight  make  for  the  Papeete  entrance  through 
Tahiti's  coral  cincture.  Point  Venus,  according  to  our  Sail- 
ing Directory,  is  the  most  important  geographical  site  in  the 
Pacific,  as  it  has  been  the  point  most  accurately  determined, 
or  at  least  has  had  more  observations  made  from  it  than  any 
other  point.  In  1769  Captain  Cook,  on  his  first  expedition, 
went  here  in  company  with  Green,  the  astronomer,  to  observe 
the  transit  of  Venus.  If  I  had  a  son,  and  he  looked  through 
this  old  South  Pacific  Ocean  Directory,  and  then  did  not 
want  to  run  away  to  sea,  I  should  disown  him!  Such  un- 
believable romance  is  spilled  through  these  pages  of  bare 
facts,  such  exploits  of  such  brave  gentlemen  and  gallant  com- 
manders !  English,  French,  Dutch,  and  what  not — theirs  are 
names  to  conjure  with,  and  we  run  upon  them  everywhere: 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  171 

Captain  Cook,  Mendana,  Roggewein,  Bougainville,  Ingra- 
ham,  Quiros,  Bligh,  Boenecheo,  Wallis,  Marchand,  Schouten, 
Cartaret,  and  so  on  down  the  blazing  line  of  men  who  went 
fearlessly  to  sea  in  all  sorts  of  queer  craft  and  drew  charts  on 
this  vast  sheet  of  water.  I  wonder  that  any  one  ever  grows 
old  in  this  storied  region,  this  purple  desert  of  the  ocean, 
littered  with  ''fragments  of  Paradise."  As  it  is,  people  age 
leisurely.  Atrophy  is  stayed  by  the  atmosphere,  physical 
and  mental,  of  Polynesia.  That  they  do  die  some  time  or 
other  we  know,  from  the  plaintive  Tahitian  proverb : 

"The  coral  increases,  the  palm  grows,  but  man  departs." 

"We  have  lived  a  little,  you  and  I,  Mate-Woman,"  Jack 
said  this  morning,  as  we  took  our  book  under  an  awning  out 
of  the  glare.  We  had  been  talking  over  our  travel  experi- 
ences and  the  people  we  had  met,  from  Cuba  to  Molokai,  from 
Paris  to  the  Masquesas.  A  vivid  life  it  is,  and  we  hold  it 
and  cherish  it,  every  minute,  every  hour  of  to-day,  and  yes- 
terday, and  the  fair  thought  of  days  that  are  coming. 

.  .  .  You  should  see  Herrmann  this  afternoon.  Probably 
taking  note  of  a  camera  on  deck,  he  disappeared  below  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  he  came  up,  all  in  white  sailor 
ducks,  the  broad  collar  flaring  back  from  his  powerful  neck, 
long  time  free  from  any  restraint  of  "high-heeled  collars" 
as  he  innocently  calls  them.  He  was  exceedingly  debonaire 
in  a  jaunty  white  hat,  on  his  face  the  frankest  possible  smirk 
of  satisfaction  and  expectancy  of  admiration.  He  had 
shaved  a  three-weeks '  stubble,  and  the  smirk  was  a  whimsical 
ghost  of  Mona  Lisa's  smile,  lurking  half-abashed  behind  the 
mandarin-droop  of  a  yellow  moustache. 

He  has  been  irrepressibly  talkative  all  day,  has  Herrmann, 
and  the  captain  correspondingly  glum.  "The  fool  Dutch- 
man," he  growled,  reminiscent  of  Herrmann's  enthusiastic 
efforts  at  being  clerk  of  the  weather  in  the  Paumotus.  His 
moroseness  passed  lightly  above  the  sailor's  guileless  head, 
however,  for  presently,  bending  over  a  piece  of  canvas  with 
the  statement  that  he  was  not  so  quick  mit  the  needle  as  he 


172  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

was  more  time  before  yet,  Herrmann  went  on  to  tell  of  his 
last  experience  in  an  American  ship,  where,  contrary  to  the 
usual  custom  on  vessels  from  our  country,  the  men  were 
poorly  fed.  Their  fare,  he  said,  was  but  six  slices  daily  of 
unrisen  bread,  with  rusty,  weevily  pea-soup  five  times  a  week. 
The  captain  wanted  to  make  him  bo's'n,  but  Herrmann 
would  not  accept  the  promotion.  ' '  I  cannot  as  drive  the  men 
of  the  way  I  must  ought,"  he  lucidly  explained  to  us.  "I 
cannot  of  swear  a  more  o'  many  than  dom,  and  like  o'  that, 
when  I  am  as  very  mad."  Then  he  recounted  how  one  day 
a  seventeen-year-old  boy  fell  overboard,  and  the  captain  did 
not  turn  his  head  until  one  of  the  officers  rushed  past  to  the 
wheel.  "Then  the  cap'n  called  him  back,  and  came  along- 
side the  rail  up,  and  nevermore  did  I  as  hear  such  a  lan- 
guage as  he  of  used.  The  youngster  boy  he  vas  as  trying 
save  himself  mit  the  log-line,  and  like  o '  that,  and  the  cap  'n 
swearing  at  him  of  to  let  go.  And  that  youngster  boy  he 
let  go.  But  that  was  not  any  never  mind  to  the  cap'n.  It 
vas  awful  to  see  that  boy  as  of  left  behind.  .  .  .  No,  I  can- 
not as  drive  the  men.  I  cannot  as  swear  yet  as  like  that  al- 
ready. ' ' 

According  to  Herrmann,  his  association  with  the  Snarls' s 
company  has  wrought  great  improvement  in  his  English. 
"I  have  of  learning  more  English  as  every  day,"  he  beams 
repeatedly  (he  is  always  afraid  he  will  not  be  heard)  ;  but  I 
vow  he  isn  't  learning  it  from  me !  His  ambition  is  to  own  a 
farm  in  America.  "It  is  the  only  country  of  what  I  like," 
he  avers. 

.  .  .  The  day  had  been  sticky  hot.  Sky  and  water  have 
vied  in  outshining  each  other  and  have  met  in  a  brassy  glare. 
My  head  has  ached,  but  my  fuzzy  utterance  concerning  it, 
produced  by  the  ammonia  ravages  inside  my  mouth,  has 
caused  more  mirth  than  becoming  sympathy. 

The  bulk  of  Tahiti  is  plainly  to  be  seen,  but  its  eight 
thousand  feet  of  volcanic  upheaval  is  lost  in  leaden  billows 
of  cloud.  Jack  and  Martin  are  laying  plans  for  getting  to 
work  on  engine  repairing  as  soon  as  may  be  after  arrival. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  173 

The  captain  pores  charts,  and,  as  twilight  comes  on,  sweeps 
the  nearing  coast  for  the  Point  Venus  Light,  supposed  to  be 
visible  at  fifteen  miles.  The  captain  was  in  Papeete  some 
twenty-five  years  ago  in  a  training-ship,  but  remembers  little 
about  its  approaches. 

What  are  our  dear  ones  at  home  thinking,  all  these  weeks 
without  report  of  the  Snarkf  We  had  written  before  leav- 
ing Hawaii  that  we  should  not  be  more  than  three  weeks 
going  to  the  Marquesas — and  we  were  over  eight.  There  is 
no  cable  from  Tahiti.  There  never  was  one,  in  spite  of  a  cer- 
tain English  writer  to  the  contrary.  The  first  word  we  can 
send  will  be  by  the  old  steamer  Mariposa,  which  Captain 
Chabret  told  us  would  leave  Papeete  on  January  13,  making 
a  twelve  days'  voyage  to  San  Francisco;  and  on  this  steamer 
will  go  all  the  mail  we  sent  from  Taiohae  by  the  Gauloise. 
The  Mariposa  should  be  in  Tahiti  on  the  9th,  and  we  can 
hardly  wait  to  get  our  hands  on  our  letters. 

Again  must  I  break  into  the  Log,  briefly  to  narrate  months 
passed  in  Tahiti,  a  land  which,  although  surpassingly  beau- 
tiful from  craggy  mountain  head  to  smoking  surf,  is  very 
much  on  the  "  tourist  route, "  and  very  much  exploited 
in  book  and  steamship  circular. 

No  one  who  has  entered  the  harbour  of  Papeete,  "Paris 
of  the  Pacific/'  is  ever  likely  to  forget  the  emotional  impact 
of  it.  Outside  the  coral  barrier,  one  sees  to  the  south  the 
smoke  of  reefs,  rising,  drifting  over  the  rainbow-coloured 
channel  between  Tahiti  and  pinnacled  Moorea,  lying  to  the 
west;  then  follows  the  exciting  fight  through  the  swift  out- 
ward current  of  the  narrow  reef-entrance  into  the  harbour, 
with  the  wicked  waters  leaping,  hissing,  reaching,  snapping, 
from  the  treacherous  coral  on  either  hand.  Once  safely  in- 
side and  past  the  reefy  wooded  islet  in  the  middle  of  the 
harbour,  Motu-uta,  the  calm  of  the  haven  is  like  peace  of 
prayer  after  deliverance  from  peril,  and  you  lift  your  eyes  to 
green  palmy  hills,  on  to  the  abrupt  heights  of  solemn  Oro- 


174  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

hena,  Aorai,  Piti-Hiti,  and  other  stern  mountain  heads — 
The  Diadem,  a  thorny  tiara  of  spiked  peaks,  like  the  Dent 
du  Midi  of  Switzerland. 

And  then  the  town:  never  was  anything  sweeter  to  look 
upon  than  this  garden  spot  of  flowers  and  vines  and  trees  of 
deepest  green,  the  quaint  French  roofs  peeping  here  and 
there  from  among  the  flamboyante  and  fau  and  mango  foli- 
age. The  Quai  de  Commerce,  Papeete's  main  thoroughfare, 
runs  along  the  in-curving  water  front,  embowered  in  mag- 
nificent flamboyante  trees,  with  houses  and  shops  on  the 
shore-side  only,  while  the  seaward  outlook  of  the  broad  ave- 
nue is  unobstructed  save  for  gnarled  tree-trunks,  and  little 
white  schooners  and  sloops  backed  up  in  deep  water  right  to 
the  sheer  margin  of  the  street,  their  graceful  bows  facing 
out  toward  the  barrier  reef. 

Near  the  southern  end  of  the  crescent,  a  high  white 
church,  red-roofed,  is  reflected  upon  the  glassy  water  in- 
shore, and  other  buildings,  long  and  white  and  many-win- 
dowed, are  duplicated  as  clearly — like  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
a  Swiss  city  on  a  lake. 

Along  the  street  occasional  slow  forms  in  long  gowns  of 
white  or  pink,  red  or  blue,  move  to  and  fro,  or  a  duck-suited 
Tahitian,  going  just  fast  enough  to  keep  from  falling,  wheels 
on  a  bicycle. 

To  north  and  south  of  the  harbour  lie  idyllic  points  of  low 
white  beach,  crowded  with  laden  cocoanut  palms;  and  as 
you  gaze  at  them  and  between  their  pillared  trunks  to  the 
intensely  blue  water  of  other  bays  beyond,  over  the  whole 
lovely  picture  comes  a  change  that  is  all  in  your  own  brain. 
In  place  of  the  houses  of  the  French  and  their  half-castes, 
you  behold  golden  brown  grass  huts  of  the  early  Tahitians, 
scattered  under  trees  that  are  not  flamboyante  trees. 
Moored  in  sheltered  places,  or  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  you 
see  scores  of  enormous  war  canoes,  perhaps  the  mighty  fleet 
of  nearly  two  thousand  that  was  here  in  Cook's  day.  There 
are  no  streets,  only  haphazard  pleasure-lanes  among  the 
pandanus-thatched  dwellings;  and  no  steamer-wharf  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  175 

long  unsightly  sheds  of  commerce  mar  the  perfect  sweep  of 
shore-rim.  Under  the  palms  pace  stately  figures  of  men 
and  women,  and  a  warm  trade-wind  rustles  the  great  fronds 
above  them. 

Then  you  fancy  a  commotion  in  the  happy  village,  and, 
following  the  stretched  arms  of  the  natives,  turn  to  greet  a 
wonderful  sight — two  painted  galleons,  questing  along  the 
outer  edge  of  the  barrier  reef.  They  spy  the  passage  and 
alter  their  course — fair  vision  of  strangely  fashioned  hulls 
and  gleaming  canvas,  as  a  favouring  zephyr  swells  the  fan- 
tastic sails.  Perhaps  it  is  morning,  or  maybe  flush  of  sun- 
set; or,  again,  it  is  the  brazen  noon  that  strikes  upon  land 
and  sea.  It  does  not  matter — each  phase  of  the  day  is  more 
beautiful  than  another. 

In  the  carven  bows  stand  two  Spanish  adventurers,  Luis 
Valdez  de  Torres  and  Pedro  Fernandez  de  Quiros.  Three 
hundred  years  ago,  first  of  European  voyageurs,  they  raised 
Tahiti;  and  secretly  from  all  the  world  but  Spain  they  car- 
ried home  the  name  they  gave  to  their  discovery,  La  Sagit- 
taria.  So  well  did  Spain  guard  her  knowledge  that  when, 
more  than  a  century  and  a  half  later,  Captain  Wallis  came 
upon  Tahiti  in  the  Dolphin,  he  did  not  dream  but  what  he 
was  the  first  white  man  to  set  foot  upon  King  George  Island, 
as  he  christened  it,  in  honour  of  George  III  who  had  equipped 
the  expedition.  A  year  later  came  Bougainville — 1768 — and 
called  the  land  Nouvelle  Cythere.  In  1769,  the  ubiquitous 
Captain  Cook  dropped  in.  Don  Domingo  Bonecheo  hap- 
pened along  in  1772,  and  changed  La  Sagittaria  of 
Quiros  and  de  Torres  to  Tagiti.  And  on  his  last  voyage, 
Cook,  with  Furneaux,  made  his  third  visit  to  Papeete  Har- 
bor, August,  1777.  Eleven  years  later  the  Bounty  ar- 
rived in  Matavai  Bay,  on  the  other  side,  commissioned  by 
George  III  to  transport  breadfruit  trees  to  British  West 
Indies.  Captain  Edwards,  in  search  of  the  Bounty  and  her 
mutineers,  reached  Tahiti  in  March  of  1791,  and  Vancouver 
saw  the  island  in  the  same  year.  The  London  Missionary 
Society  sent  out  the  Duff  to  carry  missionaries  and  Bibles  to 


176  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

this  group  and  anchored  at  Tahiti  on  the  fitting  day  of  Sun- 
day, March  5,  1797.  Truly,  we  are  late  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  Everything  is  altered,  except  the  up-thrusting  spires 
of  the  amazing  mountains;  so  it  is  good  once  in  a  while  to 
give  rein  to  the  imagination  and  restore  as  best  one  may 
the  unspoiled  paradise  of  past  centuries. 

After  standing  off  all  night  in  the  squalls,  keeping  Point 
Venus  light  in  our  eye,  in  a  gorgeous  sunrise  Captain  War- 
ren steered  for  the  entrance  through  a  breaking  reef,  while 
the  ship  was  made  trig  and  trim  and  I  added  a  duck  skirt 
to  my  costume.  Everything  seemed  in  our  favour  as  we 
dipped  and  slid  in  a  pleasant  sea  toward  the  narrow  channel. 
We  had  no  cause  for  misgiving,  and  could  devote  ourselves 
to  enjoying  the  beautiful  picture  of  the  island. 

Alas — the  breeze  dropped  us  very  near  the  entrance,  and 
in  a  dangerous  position,  for  even  so  chunky  and  sturdy  a  hull 
as  ours  could  never  survive  a  pounding  on  this  iron  coral. 
So  it  was  up  with  signals,  and  promptly  our  friend  Captain 
Chabret  responded,  coming  out  in  a  launch;  and  promptly 
broke  down  as  soon  as  he  had  made  fast  to  our  side. 
Anxiety?  Try  it  once — a  small  vessel  like  ours,  drifting 
straight  toward  a  toothed  ledge  of  adamant  roaring  with 
bursting  seas,  her  sails  slatting  uselessly  with  each  lurch,  and 
an  impotent  tug  bobbing  alongside. 

It  was  not  the  tug  that  pulled  us  through,  but  the  good  old 
much  abused  wind,  which  picked  us  up  at  exactly  the  right 
point  in  our  game  of  chance.  And  we  made  as  pretty  an 
arrival  at  Papeete  as  Jack's  yachtsman  heart  could  desire, 
beating  lightly  across  the  harbour,  the  yacht  like  a  graceful 
skater  on  ice,  her  white  sails  filling  now  to  this  side,  now  to 
that,  as  Jack,  steered,  his  bright  face  all  alive  with  achieve- 
ment and  pride  in  his  dear  little  tub!  "The  old  girl!"  I 
heard  him  laugh. 

The  American  cruiser  Annapolis  was  in  port  from  Tutu- 
ila,  Samoa,  and  Captain  Warren  fairly  strutted  when  she 
dipped  her  flag. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  177 

The  port  doctor,  M.  DuBruelle,  came  out  and  assured  him- 
self of  our  excellent  health.  He  seemed  especially  inter- 
ested in  knowing  if  we  had  any  live  rats  aboard,  and  we 
learned  that  the  plague  scare  in  San  Francisco  had  not 
abated. 

Before  the  port  doctor's  boat  left,  another  came  skimming 
out,  this  time  a  tiny  familiar  outrigger,  paddled  by  a  native 
and  carrying  a  blood-red  flag.  Standing  in  the  canoe  was  a 
startlingly  Biblical  figure — a  tall,  tawny  blond  man  with 
russet  gold  beard  and  long  hair,  and  great  blue  eyes  as 
earnest  as  a  child's  or  a  seer's.  His  only  garmenture  was  a 
sleeveless  shirt  of  large-meshed  fish-net  and  a  loin  cloth  of 
red. 

We  were  fairly  spell-bound  by  the  striking  vision,  and  still 
more  mystified  when  it  broke  the  silence  with  a  matter- 
of-fact  friendly  " Hello,  Jack!"  and  " Hello,  Charmian!" 

Then  Jack  recognised  him — "The  Nature  Man/'  Ernest 
Darling,  whom  he  had  met  in  California  some  years  before, 
and  greeted  him  cordially. 

"But  what's  the  red  flag  for,  Darling?"  Jack  wanted  to 
know. 

"Why,  Socialism,  of  course,"  he  answered  simply. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  Jack  said,  "but  what  are  you  doing 
with  it?" 

"Delivering  the  message,"  Ernest  Darling  declaimed,  with 
a  sweeping  gesture  of  both  tawny  arms  toward  Papeete. 

"To  Tahiti?"  Jack  asked  incredulously. 

"Sure."  And  the  Nature  Man  clambered  aboard,  shook 
our  hands,  and  gazed  into  our  faces  with  his  sweet,  mystical, 
unsmiling  eyes,  and  then  became  suddenly  and  utterly  ab- 
sorbed in  unpacking  a  little  basket,  setting  on  the  cockpit 
seat  a  small  jar  of  clear  white  honey,  two  bursting-ripe  man- 
goes, a  tiny  jar  of  heavy  cocoanut  cream,  and  two  small, 
perfectly  ripe  alligator  pears,  which  latter  Jack  hailed  with 
a  hungry  smack. 

He  is  a  picturesque  creature,  this  Nature  Man,  and  good, 
good  clear  through.  Of  course  he  is  a  little  mad — patently 


178  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

because  he  lives  differently  from  the  generality  of  people; 
as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  a  little  mad  in  that  he  chose 
to  walk  barefoot ;  as  I  must  also  be  mad,  on  that  same  score. 
In  spite  of  his  interest  to  us,  however,  Jack  and  I  had  the 
same  thought  about  Darling — one  look  between  us  told  it  all 
— that  he  would  be  a  disturber  of  our  coveted  solitude  ashore, 
and  that,  as  sure  as  doom,  he  would  proselyte  unceasingly  in 
the  sacred  cause  of  nakedness,  diet — or  lack  of  it — cocoanut 
hair-oil,  fish-net  shirts  in  winter,  and  so  on.  .  .  .  How  could 
we  dream  of  his  delicacy,  that  kept  him  from  intruding  until, 
weeks  later,  we  sent  for  him ;  nor  his  devotion  in  illness,  nor 
his  generosity  with  all  he  possessed? 


"Any  old  place  I  can  hang  my  hat 
Is  home,  sweet  home,  to  me," 

one  tramp  sang ;  but  with  this  glowing  young  tramp  of  mine, 
this  peripatetic  Jack  London,  any  old  place  he  can  hang  his 
writing  elbow  on  any  old  table,  is  good  enough  for  him.  He 
is  a  wonder  to  me.  My  first  responsibility  in  any  new  place 
is  to  find  or  devise  a  table  for  his  work ;  and  there  have  been 
some  queer  ones.  No  matter  how  alluring  the  situation,  how 
novel,  how  exciting,  at  nine  of  the  clock  down  he  sits,  pep- 
pers the  plane  before  him  with  little  note-pads,  some  already 
scribbled,  some  blank,  squares  his  manuscript  tablet — or 
diagonals  it,  rather,  for  that  elbow  rests  well  on  the  table — 
selects  an  ink-pencil  from  the  half  dozen  that  Nakata  keeps 
filled,  reads  over  the  previous  day's  thousand  words — usually 
aloud  to  me — and  then,  with  a  little  swooping  bob  that  seems 
to  shake  him  free  of  all  external  bother,  and  a  busy,  wise 
little  smile,  he  settles  for  two  hours  of  creation — of  bread  and 
butter,  he  will  have  it.  Sometimes  he  looks  up,  with  a  big 
smile  in  his  eyes,  and  says  to  me: 

' '  Funny  way  to  make  a  living,  isn  't  it,  Mate-Woman  ? ' ' 
And  I  often  wonder  how  many  men  can  do  it — carry  their 
business  around  with  them,  and  attend  to  it  strictly,  day 
after  day,  at  stated  hours,  living  romance  and  creating  ro- 


Off   for   Tahaa  with   Tehei 


Pahia,   Bora-Bora 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  179 

mance  at  the  same  time.  Now  I  can  spill  my  thoughts  over 
many  pages  at  the  end  of  the  most  thrilling  day ;  but  to  re- 
strain oneself  to  certain  hours  is  another  matter.  Also,  Jack 
practically  never  writes  of  experiences  while  he  is  in  the  thick 
of  them.  He  waits;  he  gains  perspective  and  atmosphere 
through  time.  He  is  the  artist,  the  painter;  I  am  mere 
photographer — with  colour  plates,  true,  at  times,  but  still  a 
photographer. 

In  Lavaina's  famous  hotel  I  left  the  artist  to  his  painting, 
and  went  house  hunting.  I  found  a  cottage  embowered  in 
roses  and  tiare  and  blumeria,  shady  with  breadfruit  and 
palm,  and  drowsy  with  honey  bees.  The  ground  sloped 
greenly  up  at  the  back  to  a  mossy  high  wall  over  which 
drifted  choral  voices  of  men  and  boys  in  a  Catholic  school. 
The  cottage  was  let  to  us  by  our  good  friend  Alexandre 
Drollet,  government  interpreter.  It  was  ours  for  three 
months,  during  which  we  made  a  month's  round-trip  to 
San  Francisco  on  the  steamer  Mariposa,  leaving  the  Snark 
engines  to  be  repaired — for  the  third  time.  The  history  of 
these  Papeete  repairs  is  largely  one  of  graft,  in  which  our 
captain  shared  bountifully.  We  should  have  let  him  go,  but 
for  one  thing.  We  had  learned,  from  him,  be  it  said  to  his 
credit,  of  his  having  served  seven  years  of  a  life  sentence 
for  murder.  He  had  been  pardoned,  and  we,  to  give  him 
this  chance  to  rehabilitate  himself,  kept  him  on  despite  his 
known  crookedness  to  us. 

We  worked  very  hard  in  Tahiti — we  had  to  work  hard  to 
keep  even  with  the  graft.  Jack  knew  it  long  before  he  told 
me;  but  his  way  is  always  to  let  people  hang  themselves  in 
their  own  way.  Perhaps  it  is  a  good  method  by  which  to 
learn  one's  essential  human  relationships. 

Although  we  enjoy  work  and  the  opportunity  to  work, 
I  am  not  sure  it  is  the  best  thing  for  us  under  this  ardent 
sun.  Our  friend  Dr.  E.  S.  Goodhue,  in  Hawaii,  warned  us 
repeatedly  that  we  were  living  too  strenuously  in  an  ener- 


180  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

vating  climate.  I  am  tired  beyond  all  apparent  reason,  much 
of  the  time.  But  be  this  as  it  may,  one  thing  is  certain,  as 
Jack  says — we  shall  never  rust,  in  this  or  any  other  latitude. 

The  custom  among  the  French  in  Tahiti  requires  a  visitor 
to  make  the  initial  call.  Since  we  did  not  learn  this  until 
near  the  end  of  our  three  months,  and  since  we  are  ever 
poor  callers,  we  were  practically  uninterrupted;  and  Omar 
himself  might  have  benignly  envied  us  our  life  in  that  idyllic 
garden.  A  few  delightful  souls  broke  through  the  inhospi- 
table habit  of  the  country,  and  gave  us  some  happy  social 
hours — the  Meuels  of  the  Steamship  Company ;  the  Tourjees 
(his  father  was  founder  of  the  Boston  Conservatory  of 
Music);  Consul  Dreher  and  his  wife;  and  Mr.  Young,  a 
wandering  friend  of  the  Nature  Man's.  Also,  the  famous 
Tati  Salmon  bade  us  to  his  home  at  Papara  for  the  New 
Year's  festival.  There  we  met  his  daughters  and  sons — 
splendid  examples  of  the  physical  aristocracy  of  Polynesian 
chief -stock  mingled  with  English  blood;  all  educated  in 
Paris,  and  now  living  their  sumptuous  tropical  life.  Husky 
Jack  London  was  a  mere  babe  alongside  these  strapping 
girls,  who  easily  weighed  three  hundred.  We  attended 
a  fair  and  a  feast  at  Papara,  and,  most  remarkable  of  all, 
in  the  narrow  white  French  church  heard  the  himine  singing 
of  the  native  Christians,  a  beautiful  production  in  which  the 
women  carry  the  air,  and  the  men  produce  an  accompani- 
ment of  sound,  the  volume  and  tone  of  which  is  akin  to  a 
pipe  organ.  This  is  familiarly  known  as  "the  Tahiti 
Organ."  The  melodies  are  based  upon  old  hymns,  but  have 
become  infused  with  an  indescribable  barbaric  lilt  that  is 
infinitely  stirring. 

We  also  came  to  know  dear  old  man  McCoy  and  his  kind- 
hearted  daughter — of  the  McCoys  of  Pitcairn  and  the  Bounty. 
Our  acquaintance  with  them  was  a  rare  bit  of  luck  for  us. 

One  especial  blessing,  when  we  could  tear  ourselves  from 
the  completeness  of  our  home  life  under  the  breadfruit  and 
palms,  was  our  sunset  swimming  off  the  Snark's  rail.  We 
were  a  mixed  and  exuberant  company — Captain  Warren, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  181 

our  Japanese  boys,  Martin,  M.  and  Mme.  Drollet  and  their 
brood,  the  Nature  Man  and  Mr.  Young  and  others ;  and  great 
was  the  splashing  and  laughter  and  defiance  of  sharks.  Once, 
we  arose  before  dawn,  and,  with  the  Nature  Man,  climbed 
the  perpendicular  heights  to  his  tiny  plantation.  And 
often,  of  mornings,  before  Jack  was  awake,  I  sallied  out  in 
flowing  native  garb  and  bare  feet  for  dewy  walks  in  the 
foothills. 

I  believe  our  only  really  unpleasant  experience  in  Papeete 
was  Jack 's  bout  with  the  dentist.  His  teeth  had  been  threat- 
ening for  some  time,  and  finally  "blew  up/'  as  he  expressed 
it.  His  sufferings  were  such  that  the  American  dentist,  Dr. 
Williams,  finally  begged  Jack  to  take  a  vacation,  as  both  of 
them  were  nervously  exhausted.  We  acted  upon  this  good 
advice  and  took  a  week's  cruise  to  Moorea,  which  proved  as 
beautiful  as  the  sunset  vision  of  it  that  we  were  accustomed 
to.  ...  And  here  I  shall  shake  off  the  temptation  to  speak 
more  at  length  of  Tahiti,  and  go  aboard  our  little  floating 
home  once  more. 

Aboard  the  Snark,  at  sea, 
Between  Raiatea  and  Bora-Bora,  Society  Islands, 

Thursday,  April  9,  1908. 

Five  days  ago,  we  bade  farewell  to  Tahiti.  All  was  packed 
and  ready  two  days  before ;  but  the  weather  was  outrageous, 
with  a  falling  glass.  Then,  of  course,  something  had  to  go 
wrong  with  the  small  engine  so  that  we  had  no  electric  lights. 
The  growing  friction  between  Warren  and  Herrmann  had 
ripened  into  a  breach  that  lost  us  the  sailor.  A  runaway 
seaman  from  a  French  ship  took  the  Dutchman's  place  at  the 
last  moment  of  our  departure — a  rather  good-looking  but 
weak-faced  youth  from  Bordeaux. 

Having  pulled  up  stakes  at  the  Drollet  house  and  sent  our 
things  aboard,  we  went  to  Lavaina's  hotel.  There  were  few 
guests,  and  our  rest  would  have  been  good  but  for  mosqui- 
toes and  the  noisy  revels  of  a  couple  of  citizens  of  Papeete 
who  were  entertaining,  in  a  near-by  cottage,  some  of  the 


182  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

officers  of  the  Chilean  training  ship  in  port.  Whatever  may 
be  the  ship's  discipline,  these  Chileans  are  a  lawless  lot  off 
duty.  So  impudent  are  the  dark-browned  little  rascals  that 
a  white  woman  feels  uncomfortable  alone  in  the  streets. 
And  they  are  such  soiled,  untidy  creatures,  both  officers  and 
men.  However,  they  are  more  attractive  than  the  general 
run  of  hoodlums  at  home,  for,  as  with  the  Latin  races  gen- 
erally, they  are  full  of  good  music,  and  some  have  excellent 
voices. 

First  we  heard  the  distant  music  of  their  band,  which 
was  giving  a  concert  ashore;  and  after  the  home-going  car- 
riages of  the  Papeeteans  had  all  rattled  by,  there  came  the 
ringing  robust  voices  of  the  Chileans  as  they  marched  down 
street  to  the  cottage  across  the  way,  the  melting  contraltos 
of  their  native  girls  blending  in  the  rollicking  chorus  played 
by  the  band. 

Once  indoors,  one 'convivial  South  American  wrestled  most 
musically  with  '  *  La  Paloma, ' '  evidently  remembering  it  "by 
ear,"  with  frequent  assistance  from  his  friends;  but  the 
spirit  and  go  compensated  for  lapses  and  interruptions. 
Some  one  played  his  accompaniments  on  a  piano  and  we  lay 
and  listened  to  the  songs  and  cries  of  "Bis!  Bis!"  Then 
came  dancing,  hula-hula  after  hula-hula,  to  the  strains 
(most  strained)  of  an  accordion,  every  one  crazy  with  fun, 
while  wild  laughter  and  drinking  songs  broke  out  between 
whiles.  In  a  lull,  a  man  sang  "Les  Rameaux"  in  a  glorious 
baritone  to  a  splendid  piano  accompaniment;  after  which 
two  others  were  inspired  to  make  a  triumphant  duet  out  of 
the  song.  We  could  only  compare  the  affair  to  some  talented 
college  fraternity  turned  loose — only  there  was  something  of 
true  Bohemianism  about  these  swarthy  small  foreigners  that 
no  cool-blooded  Anglo-Saxon  ever  quite  achieves — perhaps 
because  he  tries  too  hard.  And  also  it  is  easier  for  those 
who  have  acquired  music  with  their  mothers'  milk  to  infuse 
their  fun  with  true  abandon. 

Evidently  it  makes  a  difference  who  breaks  the  peace  of 
Papeete  after  10  p.  M.  The  line  was  promptly  drawn  by 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  183 

neighbours  against  our  poor  phonograph  playing  later  than 
nine  at  Drollet  's ;  and  Lavaina  's  guests  were  called  down  for 
mere  singing  and  piano  playing  shortly  after  the  ultra-re- 
spectable hour.  But  these  same  guests  are  subject  to  annoy- 
ance from  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  nothing  is  said. 
" Funny,"  as  Nakata  would  remark.  In  this  particular  in- 
stance, however,  Jack  and  I  counted  our  sleep  well  lost. 

Lavaina  is  one  of  the  few  honest  business  persons  in 
Papeete.  She  is  "all  right,"  and  there  is  no  graft  in  her. 
It  is  even  said  that  she  often  suffers  by  her  lack  of  cupidity 
in  dealings  with  less  guileless  ones  in  her  bailiwick.  Just 
as  she  had  greeted  us  three  months  before,  she  now  sped  us 
with  her  famous  cocktails,  and  we  departed  with  a  tall  bottle 
of  the  same,  and  her  good  wishes. 

We  had  M.  and  Mme.  Drollet  for  our  parting  dinner  at 
Lavaina 's.  He  brought  Jack  a  backgammon  board,  while 
Madame  presented  me  with  a  roll  of  bamboo  hat  braid  of 
her  own  make ;  and  the  twain  sent  aboard  the  yacht  the  last 
of  their  incomparable  breadfruit.  Mr.  Young  and  the  Na- 
ture Man  loaded  us  with  taro  and  feis  and  bananas,  to  say 
nothing  of  drinking  cocoanuts. 

And  as  we  throbbed  out  through  the  breaking  barrier  reef, 
waving  good-bye  to  our  friends  on  the  wharf,'  we  knew  that 
our  last  memory  of  Papeete  Harbor,  as  it  is  our  first,  will 
always  be  the  quaint  Biblical  figure  in  its  scarlet  waving 
loin-cloth,  Ernest  Darling,  the  Nature  Man. 

In  spite  of  delay  and  graft,  and  Jack's  terrible  time  with 
his  teeth,  our  days  in  Papeete  were  very  sweet,  living  on  the 
fat  of  the  land  (blissfully  garnished  with  garlic)  ;  but  it 
was  with  a  distinct  joy  of  relief  that  we  turned  to  the  north- 
west and  watched  for  our  next  island.  Jack's  spirits  were 
somewhat  dampened  by  a  mild  attack  of  seasickness.  I  had 
a  violent  headache  all  night,  which  may  have  been  a  form 
of  the  same  malady.  There  was  a  distressing  double  sea,  and 
not  wind  enough  to  steady  us  in  it. 

We  carried  three  passengers  from  Tahiti,  although  not  of 


184  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  description  to  cause  us  to  forfeit  our  yacht  license.  One 
was  an  amiable  yellow  pup,  en  route  to  a  native  maiden  on 
Raiatea ;  the  other  two  passengers  were  served  up  brown  just 
as  we  passed  through  Raiatea 's  reef  entrance,  and  closely 
resembled  one  of  Wada's  masterly  achievements  of  fried 
chicken.  This  was  the  first  time  on  the  run  that  we  saw  Jack 
interested  in  kai-kai — which  is  the  Tahitian  for  food. 

Skirting  the  reef  for  some  distance,  hunting  for  our  en- 
trance, we  had  a  long  vision  of  Raiatea — an  elysium  of 
green  mountains  and  greener  foothills.  The  highest  is 
nearly  four  thousand  feet,  but  the  general  outlines  are  less 
startling  than  Moorea's  or  even  Tahiti's  bluff  shoulders. 
There  is  one  mighty  bastion,  however,  probably  an  ancient 
blowhole,  to  the  right  of  the  village — an  important  landmark 
for  mariners. 

Two  miles  north  of  Raiatea,  and  within  the  same  reef  (an 
unusual  phenomenon),  lies  another  large  island,  Tahaa,  sur- 
rounded by  its  brood  of  islets. 

As  I  sat  up  forward  in  the  sunset,  revelling  in  the  fertile 
loveliness  of  Raiatea,  Jack  came  behind,  took  my  head  in 
both  his  hands,  set  my  face  to  the  west,  and  pointed  off  be- 
tween Raiatea  and  Tahaa  to  where  a  wondrous  castled  shape 
of  earth  was  flung  against  the  burning  sky — and  I  knew  it 
for  that  far-famed  gem  of  Polynesia,  Bora-Bora.  Even  now, 
days  afterward,  sailing  closer  and  closer,  this  island  loses 
none  of  its  enchantment. 

But  to  get  back  to  our  arrival  at  Raiatea : 

The  Snark  passed  between  two  emerald  islets  that  guard 
either  side  of  the  reef  entrance,  into  the  Bay  of  Teavarua. 
There  is  another  passage,  but  the  water  was  breaking  there 
and  we  chose  the  wider  and  smoother  way — lively  enough  at 
best.  Captain  Warren  remarked,  as  he  did  concerning 
Opunohu  Bay  at  Moorea,  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  the  harbour  except  too  much  water,  the  depth  being 
between  eighteen  and  twenty-four  fathoms,  although  with 
good  holding-ground.  We  learn  all  we  can  beforehand  about 
these  anchorages.  Our  hook  bit  in  at  about  eighteen  fath- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  185 

oms,  and  the  yacht  swung  to  the  puffy  little  willie-waws  that 
ran  down  the  hills.  It  was  dark,  except  for  a  tender  young 
moon  and  one  lone  light  ashore.  We  could  dimly  make  out 
a  schooner  lying  close  in  by  the  land,  and  two  or  three  long 
buildings  that  resembled  factories. 

We  did  not  go  ashore.  The  Snark  is  our  home  once  more, 
and  our  own  beds  are  the  best  we  know. 

The  next  morning,  Monday,  my  head  ached  harder  than 
ever,  and  I  stayed  below.  About  eleven  Jack  tentatively 
observed  that  if  I  felt  able,  we  might  take  a  short  sail  in  a 
canoe  with  a  most  ingratiating  native.  I  was  not  enthusi- 
astic, but  to  please  Jack  I  crawled  out  and  up,  to  find  a 
rusty  outrigger  alongside  rocking  to  a  snowy  spritsail  the 
size  of  which  was  comically  out  of  proportion  to  the  slender 
dugout.  The  owner,  a  bright-faced,  alert-bodied  islander 
with  uncommercially  honest  eyes,  was  modestly  blessing  us 
with  bundles  of  greens  and  a  basket  of  knobby  sweet  pota- 
toes, for  all  of  which  he  would  take  no  price.  He  was 
garbed  in  a  pareu  and  a  straw  hat,  and  his  name  is  Tehei 
(pronounced  Tay-hay'-ee) — good  Tehei,  now  at  the  Snark' s 
wheel,  piloting  us  to  Bora-Bora;  while  Bihaura  (Bee-hah- 
oo '-rah),  his  wife,  sits  near  by  and  hemstitches  like  a  Mexi- 
can needlewoman,  after  one  lesson  from  me. 

But  I  am  anticipating — as  I  sometimes  must  when  recapit- 
ulating. 

Well,  we  dropped  into  the  canoe,  Jack  in  pajamas  and  I 
in  bathing-suit  (for  I  was  absolutely  sure  that  airy  spritsail 
would  capsize  the  outrigger),  and  Tehei  lifted  me  down  as 
carefully  as  if  I  were  a  baby.  We  sailed  away  toward  the 
reef,  Jack  balancing  on  the  outrigger,  for  any  canoe  is  ticklish 
with  a  sail — and  such  a  spread  of  cotton  as  this !  Tehei  was 
as  fine  and  quick  as  could  be  in  handling  his  boat,  on  each 
tack  lifting  a  sun-bleached  log  over  on  the  weather  out- 
rigger to  offset  the  force  of  the  wind,  at  the  same  time  mo- 
tioning Jack  to  shift  his  weight  to  wind  'ard.  I  sat  damply 
on  a  piece  of  board  resting  across  the  sides  of  the  canoe, 
which  sides  were  not  more  than  a  foot  apart.  A  canoe  under 


186  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sail  is  little  less  than  a  keel  in  itself,  its  passengers  mere  bal- 
last and  disposed  almost  on  a  level  with  the  water,  their  feet 
resting  in  the  swash  at  the  bottom  of  the  narrow  coffin-like 
thing. 

We  were  children  on  a  lark.  I  forgot  that  I  ever  had  a 
headache.  This  merry  adventure  was  more  like  the  real 
thing  than  anything  we  had  done  yet.  What  mattered 
Papeete,  with  its  degenerate  civilisation  and  its  business 
sharks?  Or  poor  lovely  Taiohae  with  its  careless  govern- 
ment that  lets  it  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  its  sinned-against  peo- 
ple dying  without  spirit  to  resist  death! 

Tehei's  slim  French  and  redundant  motions  finally  con- 
vinced us  he  was  serious  in  desiring  to  take  us  on  to  Tahaa, 
whence  he  had  come;  so  we  called  on  our  own  French  and 
gestures  to  get  him  to  take  us  back  to  the  yacht  for  a  few 
accessories  such  as  cigarettes,  a  comb,  a  handkerchief.  A 
tin  cracker  box  was  packed  and  wrapped  in  a  rubber  poncho, 
for  a  possible  stay  over  night.  While  we  had  our  midday 
meal  below,  Tehei  sat  contentedly  on  deck  and  ate  maitai 
kai-kai  (good  food)  according  to  his  own  pleased  verdict. 

By  half  past  twelve  we  were  careening  dizzily  off  for  a 
new  island.  Tehei  seemed  to  know  every  fathom  of  the 
lagoon,  and  presently  left  the  deeps,  guiding  swiftly  over 
broad  coral  shallows.  I  found  my  breath  coming  quickly 
at  the  proximity  of  some  of  the  large  coral  masses ;  but  Tehei 
perched  in  the  stern  and  serenely  steered  with  a  big  paddle 
overside,  winding  in  and  out  the  little  channels  of  the  reef, 
familiar  to  him  as  our  city  streets  to  us.  The  smallness  of 
the  craft  and  its  disproportionate  canvas,  together  with  our 
whizzing  speed,  recalled  an  ice-yachting  experience  I  once 
had  up  in  Maine,  on  a  Mt.  Desert  lakelet. 

Let  no  one  imagine  we  arrived  dry  at  Tahaa.  We  did  not. 
Jack  was  drenched;  as  for  me,  the  water  had  poured 
into  my  lap,  and  I  had  been  kept  busy,  as  my  part  of  work- 
ing the  boat,  bailing  with  a  contrivance  hollowed  from  a  sec- 
tion of  a  small  tree — a  sort  of  scoop  with  two  elongated  par- 
allel holes  for  the  hand  to  grasp. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  187 

At  the  time  we  climbed  out  at  Tahaa  and  waded  ashore 
(Tehei  first  offering  to  carry  me),  we  did  not  know  of  the 
olden  fame  of  this  island  and  Raiatea  for  hospitality.  Wil- 
liam Ellis,  in  his  Polynesian  Researches,  published  in  1829, 
while  recounting  some  startling  horrors  of  the  natives  of  the 
Society  Group,  gives  the  Raiateans  a  reputation  for  gentle- 
ness and  courtesy  unequalled  in  any  of  the  other  communi- 
ties. But  we  had  no  preparation  for  the  wonder  we  were  to 
know  in  the  small  thatched  house  before  us.  A  dark,  wiry 
little  vahine,  anything  but  a  beauty  but  sparkling  with  in- 
telligence, came  running  to  Tehei 's  musical  hail,  and  bustled 
us  in.  I  am  glad  that  an  ancient  custom  of  the  natives  has 
lapsed — that  of  greeting  newcomers  or  friends  with  loud 
wailings  and  lacerations  of  the  flesh  with  sharks'  teeth! 

The  ground  about  the  house  had  a  damp,  bare  appearance 
as  if  it  had  lately  been  inundated.  A  few  trees  grew  around, 
and  a  patch  of  sugar  cane.  We  stepped  on  the  flat  bottom 
of  an  antiquated  canoe-prow,  mounted  to  a  porch  under 
long  pandanus  eaves,  and  were  conducted  into  the  one  large 
room.  Tehei  followed,  having  first  unshipped  mast  and  sail 
and  brought  them  ashore ;  and  he  and  Bihaura  brought  us  a 
foot  tub  of  fresh  water  and  a  bath  towel — think  of  it !  a  bath 
towel.  Then,  with  delightful  importance,  they  fished  deep 
into  a  cedar  chest  in  a  corner  for  a  dry  shirt  for  Jack.  I 
asked,  "Ahuf"  (which  is  Tahitian  for  eueu),  and  the  small 
vahine  in  limp  black  calico  disappeared  head  and  shoulders 
into  the  scented  receptable,  emerging  with  a  clean  white 
dotted  muslin  ahu  and  a  chemise  that  was  doubtless  her  Sun- 
day best,  for  it  was  elaborate  with  cotton  crochet.  These 
luxuries  were  presented  with  little  bows  and  ducks  and 
smiles,  and,  finally  satisfied  that  we  had  what  we  needed, 
the  pair  quietly  withdrew  outdoors — the  very  pink  of  unob- 
trusive consideration.  Going  to  latch  the  door  more  se- 
curely, I  found  it  had  a  quaint  latchstring  of  cocoanut  fibre, 
like  one  we  once  saw  in  Hawaii. 

Invisible  to  those  without,  we  could  look  through  the 
breezy  bamboo  walls  and  see  our  friends  bustling  about  a 


188  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK 

thatched  cookshed.  Dried  and  dressed,  we  went  to  hang  our 
wet  clothes  in  the  sun.  Bihaura  materialised  on  the  spot — 
from  empty  air,  I  suppose,  as  we  had  seen  her  busy  else- 
where an  instant  before,  and  took  charge  of  things  with 
good-natured  peremptoriness  and  capability. 

It  is  not  so  much  what  Tehei  and  his  mate  do;  it  is  the 
way  they  do  it,  without  apparent  unusual  effort.  We  have 
been  hospitably,  gracefully,  lovingly  entertained  before;  but 
never,  in  any  land,  by  any  people,  white  or  black  or  brown, 
have  we  received  such  absolute  perfection  of  treatment  as 
from  this  simple  kanaka  and  his  simple  vahine.  The  point 
is,  not  that  they  placed  their  house,  their  raiment,  their  food, 
and  their  personal  service  at  our  disposal,  but  that  they  did 
it  as  if  there  were  nothing  unusual  in  the  proceeding — as  if 
it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  give  their 
comforts  and  their  privacy  to  entire  strangers  from  a  strange 
country,  coming  to  them  without  scrip  or  purse.  In  fact, 
they  came  out  after  us,  as  if  they  ached  to  devote  their  beau- 
tiful souls  to  some  one.  We  had  expected  to  find  kindness 
and  hospitality ;  but  we  were  overwhelmed  not  only  with  the 
measure,  but  the  delicacy  and  fineness  of  it.  There  was  not 
the  shadow  of  curiosity  in  their  demeanour — in  spite  of  our 
weird  habiliments  and  our  luggage  of  tin  cracker  box.  We 
were  entertained  with  a  solicitude  that  lacked  servility,  a 
friendliness  in  which  there  was  no  obtrusiveness. 

While  Tehei  did  the  main  cooking  (an  excellent  custom 
in  Polynesia  that  carries  no  onus  with  it),  his  wife  worked 
a  transformation  scene  in  the  house.  Their  few  personal 
belongings  were  stowed  in  corners  and  covered  neatly  with 
woven  mats  of  lauhala.  Other  and  finer  mats  were  spread 
double  and  triple  on  the  floor  beside  a  big  high  bedstead, 
made  up  with  clean  sheets  and  pillow-cases,  with  a  downy 
red  and  white  steamer-rug  spread  across  the  foot.  The 
bed-space  they  screened  and  canopied  with  ample  quilts 
that  would  put  a  New  England  county  fair  in  the  shade. 
The  bureau  and  inevitable  sewing  machine — which,  with  bed 
and  two  chairs,  was  the  entire  European  furniture — were 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  189 

cleared  for  our  use.  A  large  packing  box  set  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  served  as  table,  laid  with  a  spotless  hemmed 
cotton  cloth,  water  bottle,  two  plates,  two  forks,  one  knife. 
Some  of  these  were  borrowed  from  a  neighbour  upon  whom 
Bihaura  seemed  partially  to  depend  for  taste  in  setting  and 
serving  the  meal.  She  was  a  well  favoured  woman,  named 
Metua,  not  young,  who  had  travelled  to  Raratonga  and 
Hawaii,  and  spoke  a  few  words  of  English.  Later  in  the 
afternoon  we  were  lounging  on  the  porch,  on  a  clean  mat 
and  a  big  white  pillow  stuffed  with  floss  of  cotton-tree,  and 
once,  hunting  for  change  of  position,  I  rested  my  head  on 
the  woman's  knee.  She  caressed  my  head  for  a  long  time; 
and  when  she  went  home,  Jack  called  my  attention  to  her 
legs  and  feet  as  she  pulled  up  her  gown  in  a  sudden  shower. 
Then  I  saw  she  had  elephantiasis  fee-fee.  It  did  not  seem 
to  embarrass  her,  nor  did  she  attempt  to  hide  the  deformity. 
Fortunately  for  my  peace  of  mind,  this  malady  is  not  con- 
tagious, and  the  woman  was  as  clean  and  neat  as  any  one 
could  be. 

It  takes  these  people  hours  to  prepare  a  proper  meal ;  so,  a 
little  before  sunset,  seeing  no  imminence  of  dinner,  we  took  a 
walk  through  the  village,  which  is  composed  of  scattered 
dwellings,  some  native,  some  dilapidated  European,  stringing 
along  both  sides  of  a  single  thoroughfare  built  across  a  strip 
of  the  marshy  lowland  that  forms  the  shores  of  Raiatea  and 
Tahaa.  There  may  originally  have  been  some  advantages  in 
the  introduction  of  "neat  European  houses,"  as  they  were 
dubbed  by  the  old  missionaries,  into  South  Sea  communities ; 
but  one  cannot  help  wishing  that  a  certain  missionary  of 
the  early  nineteenth  century  had  not  followed  his  bent. 
After  repeated  and  discouraging  trials  to  get  the  incredulous 
and  unwilling  natives  to  profit  by  his  example  and  erect 
geometrical  habitations  of  wood  and  stone  and  plaster  after 
the  manner  of  English  cottages,  this  good  man  was  struck 
with  a  glimmer  of  the  fitness  of  things,  for  he  plaintively 
admitted  that  sometimes  he  almost  believed  the  rambling 


190  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

style  of  architecture  and  situations  of  the  aborigines  better 
suited  the  wild  loveliness  of  the  islands  than  the  four-by- 
square  atrocities  he  was  painfully  trying  to  substitute.  The 
enormous  glaring  white  meeting-house  now  falling  into  decay 
is  a  blot  on  the  beauty  of  Tahaa,  and  as  it  does  not  seem 
to  be  used  for  any  purpose,  it  will  be  a  mercy  if  the  next 
hurricane  wipes  it  out  of  the  picture. 

Those  whom  we  met  accosted  us  with  welcoming  smiles  and 
la  ora  nas,  while  numerous  children  trooped  after,  for  few 
whites  come  to  Tahaa,  and  there  is  but  one  white  resident. 
The  natives  are  very  good  looking,  some  quite  handsome. 
One  scarlet-girdled  young  wood  god  gladdened  our  eyes, 
swinging  by  with  a  long  hunting  spear  over  his  shoulder, 
dog  at  heels,  a  chaplet  of  leaves  on  his  curly  head,  and  a 
laugh  and  song  on  his  red  lips. 

But  gone  are  the  days  when  the  people  of  Polynesia  ex- 
erted themselves  to  any  extent.  They  catch  just  enough  fish 
for  their  own  needs  and  a  little  over  and  above  to  sell  when 
they  want  money;  their  cultivation  of  vegetables  and  fruits 
is  sporadic,  or,  as  some  wit  has  put  it,  consists  in  not  hinder- 
ing the  natural  growth  of  things.  The  games  and  sports  in 
which  they  once  took  pride  seem  unknown  to  the  present 
generation.  Where  is  Tahaa 's.  doughty  chieftain,  Fenua- 
peho,  champion  wrestler  of  all  Polynesia  a  hundred  years 
ago — or  one  to  take  his  place  ?  Where  are  the  lithe  archers, 
the  fleet  foot-racers,  the  thewy  boxers,  the  strong  swimmers? 
These  were  all  here  once,  but  such  ambitious  pleasures 
lapsed  along  with  customs  less  pleasant  to  muse  upon 
— such  as  infanticide  and  older  human  sacrifice — until  there 
is  not  even  a  cock  fight  left  to  remind  one  of  the  howling 
high  times  of  yore.  Most  of  the  natives  show  little  energy 
of  purpose.  Most  endeavours  are  relegated  to  the  manana 
of  the  Spanish,  the  by  and  bye  of  the  English,  the  ariana  of 
the  South  Seas — it  is  all  one;  only,  ariana  means  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day,  and  maybe  not  then ! 

On  our  return  walk,  a  man  came  out  of  his  yard  and  pre- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  191 

sented  us  with  several  chubby  shells  spotted  like  birds'  eggs 
and  with  an  iridescent  natural  polish.  Many  of  the  neigh- 
bours dropped  in  to  pass  la  ora  na  with  us — with  a  more 
pronounced  accent  on  the  last  syllable  than  in  Tahiti.  Some 
of  the  girls  were  exceedingly  pretty;  one,  a  Raratonga 
maiden  called  Tunoa,  was  a  decided  beauty.  I  amused  my- 
self with  fair  success  trying  to  spell  the  native  names  and 
words  Metua  gave  me,  to  our  mutual  delight,  meanwhile 
gnawing  at  a  piece  of  sugar  cane;  Jack  improved  his  time 
reading  his  inevitable  book  (there  was  room  for  one  even  in 
our  tin  cracker  box),  and  took  a  nap.  We  ventured  a  peep 
at  the  cooking  of  the  delayed  dinner,  the  devoted  chefs  actu- 
ally making  apology  for  the  primitiveness  of  their  method. 
Upon  steaming  leaves  laid  over  hot  stones,  Tehei  piled  sweet 
potatoes  to  roast,  taro,  yam,  feis,  and  a  nicely  prepared 
young  fowl.  Also  there  was  a  dish  with  nice  sticky  banana 
poi  in  it,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  good  things  banked  up 
for  roasting.  Then  Tehei  spread  large  clean  green  leaves 
over  all,  and  again,  on  top  of  these,  numberless  round  mats 
made  of  leaves  symmetrically  tacked  together  with  their  own 
stems.  These  leaf-mats  had  been  used  before,  and  were 
therefore  not  allowed  next  to  the  fresh  food.  •  Every  crevice 
from  which  steam  escaped  was  closed  by  these  thick  mats,  tier 
upon  tier.  In  the  end  I  think  we  managed  to  convince  the 
self-depreciating  pair  that  their  way  was  the  best  we  ever 
saw.  It  certainly  was  the  prettiest  cooking  possible.  And 
they  were  so  immaculate  about  it;  I  know  Bihaura  washed 
her  hands  a  dozen  times. 

In  addition  to  the  things  put  to  roast,  we  were  treated 
to  raw  fish,  coming  on  the  table  cut  in  small  white  squares 
that  had  gone  through  the  usual  process  of  soaking  in 
lime-juice  and  salt.  It  was  served  in  the  delicious  cocoa- 
milk  sauce  flavoured  with  lime  and  salt,  which  we  had  learned 
to  like  in  Tahiti.  There  was  excellent  French  bread,  too, 
from  the  native  baker.  While  we  ate  from  the  packing  case, 
Bihaura  and  Tehei  became  invisible ;  but  the  fee-fee  lady  sat 
on  the  floor  and  kept  track  of  our  wants.  The  seriousness  of 


192  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

all  three  in  their  anxiety  that  everything  would  not  be  quite 
right,  was  touching.  Our  well  meant  efforts  to  have  them 
share  our  table  so  horrified  them  that  we  did  not  press. 

Jack  had  been  trying  to  explain  to  Tehei  that  we  should 
like  to  go  fishing,  and  he  conveyed  to  us  that  he  was  arrang- 
ing to  take  us  in  his  canoe  at  eleven  at  night,  to  fish  on  the 
reef.  That  was  more  than  satisfactory  to  Jack,  who  scented 
a  novel  experience. 

In  the  early  evening  Tehei  got  ready  hooks  and  lines.  He 
and  Bihaura  made  us  a  present  of  a  wooden  poi  bowl  of 
Tehei 's  manufacture,  carved  from  one  piece,  oblong,  with 
ends  like  a  canoe  and  four  squat  legs.  I  am  now  less  dis- 
appointed about  the  one  I  failed  to  get  on  Moorea.  These 
legged  bowls  are  more  like  the  pictures  of  the  Samoan  kava 
bowls.  Tehei  seemed  flattered  that  we  should  want  his  bowl ! 

While  we  talked,  Bihaura,  having  discharged  her  duties  of 
attending  to  our  material  wants,  lost  her  expression  of  ear- 
nest practical  solicitude,  and  broke  into  gracious  little  smiles 
as  she  and  Metua  sewed  at  their  wonderful  red  and  white 
quilts.  With  our  few  words  of  French  and  Tahitian,  and 
their  modicum  of  English,  we  managed  conversation,  and  en- 
joyed the  unique  evening  immensely.  We  learned,  among 
other  things,  that  Tehei  and  his  wife  once  lived  in  Papeete ; 
hence  their  acquisition  of  modern  habits  and  possessions. 
These  two  work  so  harmoniously,  and  we  have  yet  to  hear  a 
hasty  word  or  a  sharp  command  from  either  to  the  other. 
The  woman  is  a  small  Martha,  full  of  household  affairs  and 
the  comfort  of  her  guests.  She  sews,  weaves  mats  and  hats, 
and  plaits  fine  cocoa-fibre  ropes  on  which  to  hang  things  in 
the  house.  And  she  has  made  a  basket  of  white  and  brown 
bamboo  that  is  the  only  good  basket  I  have  seen  in  this  part 
of  the  world  where  material  and  workmanship  in  hats 
and  baskets  generally  seem  to  be  flimsy.  Across  one  corner 
of  the  room  hung  a  gigantic  fringe  of  lauhala  strips,  ready 
dried  to  split  for  strands  from  which  to  weave  various  use- 
ful articles. 

My  headache  having  tuned  up,  by  eight  o'clock  I  retired 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK  193 

behind  the  quilt  partition  and  lay  on  the  big  bed  gazing 
lazily  at  the  colours  and  patterns  of  the  hanging  quilts, 
which,  with  the  light  beyond,  resembled  stained-glass  win- 
dows. Jack  came  to  say  good  night,  and  while  we  talked 
in  subdued  voices,  we  noticed  a  dimming  of  the  lamp- 
light. A  few  minutes  later  we  realised  that  we  were  alone 
in  the  house.  Thinking  Jack  had  also  gone  to  rest,  our 
friends  had  faded  away  like  quiet  shadows  into  the  darkness. 

Jack  went  over  and  turned  up  the  light,  whereupon  Tehei 
reappeared,  as  if  to  await  the  appointed  hour  for  the  fishing. 
But  he  fell  asleep  on  a  mat,  and  Jack,  not  wishing  to  wake 
him  after  all  his  labour  for  us,  left  him  there. 

And  now  let  me  warn  you,  that  if  ever  you  come  to  Tahaa 
to  spend  the  night,  bring  along  your  mosquito  netting.  We 
did  not,  and  there  was  little  sleep,  for  it  was  too  warm  to 
pull  the  sheets  over  our  heads,  and  we  turned  and  tossed  and 
flapped  the  air  and  slapped  ourselves  and  each  other  until 
early  morn.  If  I  had  known  what  inconspicuous  bites  these 
particular  mosquitoes  leave  behind,  I  might  have  tried  to  go 
to  sleep  anyway. 

After  coffee  and  bananas  in  the  morning,  Metua,  seeing 
me  in  my  bathing  suit  again,  thought  I  wanted  to  swim,  and 
led  westward  down  the  road  to  a  place  where  the  bottom 
was  sandy  rather  than  prickly  with  loose  coral.  Mindful 
of  Jack's  warnings  about  sharks,  I  did  not  care  to  go  in 
alone,  so  we  sat  on  a  log,  watched  the  water,  and  soaked  in 
the  sunshine,  while  wee  brown  girls  brought  big  yellow 
allamanda  blossoms  and  stuck  them  in  my  hair  and  over  my 
ears  in  their  pretty  fashion.  It  is  sweet  to  be  a  guest  in 
Tahaa. 

I  was  just  thinking  about  returning  to  Jack,  when  I  heard 
his  "Mate!  Toot!  Toot!"  and  discovered  him  and  Tehei 
coming  along  in  the  canoe.  They  shot  into  a  shallow,  and 
took  me  aboard.  Tehei 's  new  tackle  was  in  the  canoe,  and 
he  paddled  and  steered  at  the  stern,  while  Jack  paddled  in 
the  bow.  We  skimmed  over  the  broad  shallow  reef,  past  the 
wooded  islets  that  lie  upon  it,  and  peered  down  into  en- 


194  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

chanted  gardens  of  coral,  yellow  antlers  and  purple  bunches, 
stretches  of  brown  dotted  with  blue,  and  then  there  would 
softly  gleam  sheets  of  white  sand  bottom,  wrinkled  with 
black  sea-slugs — becke  de  mer.  Here  was  only  enough  water 
to  float  the  canoe.  We  wondered  what  manner  of  fishing 
was  to  be  ours,  and  after  a  while  glided  into  deeper  water, 
where  Tehei  called  a  halt,  brought  to  light  a  squid,  bit  off 
portions  of  the  live  tentacles  and  baited  all  the  hooks.  He 
then  handed  me  a  line,  so  wound  that  it  paid  out  from  the  in- 
side, like  a  ball  of  twine,  by  the  weight  of  hook  and  bait  and 
sinker.  When  the  sinker  sounded  bottom,  Tehei  took  the 
line  from  me  and  attached  it,  where  it  left  the  water,  to  one 
end  of  a  bamboo,  then  passed  the  unused  line  along  the  stick 
and  tied  it  at  the  other  end,  and  cast  the  whole  contrivance 
loose,  where  it  floated  flat  on  the  water,  the  fish-line  sinking 
perpendicularly  from  one  end.  The  idea  is,  that  when  a  fish 
runs  with  the  hook,  the  bamboo  is  forced  end  up  in  the  water, 
the  canoe  puts  after  it  and  pulls  in  the  catch.  We  must 
have  set  a  dozen  of  these,  in  a  crescent,  before  one  of  the 
sticks  stood  up,  and  we  paddled  vigorously  to  the  shrill  cries 
and  shouts  of  Tehei.  I  should  like  to  hear  a  lot  of  kanakas 
all  going  at  once  for  their  lines ! 

We  hauled  up  a  fish  about  eighteen  inches  long,  the  same 
kind  we  had  had  raw  the  night  before — an  iridescent  wonder 
with  long  mouth  and  sharp  teeth.  Then  another  stick  up- 
ended, and  we  flew  screaming  to  the  spot,  making  as  much 
noise  as  twenty  savages,  and  hauled  in  another  beauty  of  a 
different  kind,  more  like  a  dolphin.  After  that  no  more 
bamboos  acted  up ;  so  after  resting  in  the  canoe  for  half  an 
hour,  absorbing  the  lovely  colour  of  sky  and  land  and  water, 
we  paddled  ashore  to  a  point  covered  with  cocoa  palms, 
where  we  were  greeted  heartily  by  an  elderly  half-caste 
woman  of  vivacious  manner  and  rich-toned  voice.  In  good 
English  she  regretted  our  short  stay  in  Tahaa,  as  it  would 
deprive  her  of  the  pleasure  of  giving  us  a  native  breakfast. 
They  must  all  be  large  hearted,  these  islanders.  She  spoke 
French  fluently,  having  been  educated  at  the  convent  in 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  195 

Papeete.  Her  Tahitian  name  is  Terii  Marama,  and  later  on 
she  mentioned  Susan  Bambridge  as  her  English  name.  We 
gained  some  valuable  information  concerning  the  surround- 
ing islands,  particularly  Bora-Bora,  where  she  told  us 
Bihaura,  who  came  from  there,  owned  a  good  house.  And 
before  we  left,  we  had  arranged,  through  her  as  interpreter, 
that  Tehei  should  accompany  us  to  Bora-Bora,  where  he 
would  be  able  to  bring  about  for  us  the  stone-fishing  we  have 
heard  so  much  about,  and  other  amusements  of  the  place. 

While  we  sat  talking  in  the  tufted  grass  under  a  huge 
fau,  Tehei  spied  a  squid  in  the  shallows  on  the  edge  of  the 
water.  Now,  you  would  not  have  seen  it,  or  at  least  all  you 
would  have  seen  would  have  been  what  we  saw — a  bunch  of 
brown  seaweed  as  big  as  an  ordinary  sponge.  But  Tehei 
knew,  and  Terii  Marama  knew;  and  first  thing  we  knew, 
Tehei 's  teeth  were  tearing  at  the  vitals  of  a  desperate  diminu- 
tive octopus  that  writhed  its  nauseous  tentacles,  strong  with 
innumerable  suckers,  about  the  man's  hand  and  arm.  This 
was  the  way  we  were  warned  to  do  in  Hawaii,  if  a  squid 
caught  us  swimming ! 

On  the  final  round  of  our  lines,  we  found  three  fish 
drowned.  The  sky  was  lowering  black  to  the  east;  so  we 
pulled  in  all  tackle  and  started  for  Tahaa  village.  The  wind 
grew  stronger  in  our  teeth,  and  I  knew  Jack's  unaccustomed 
arms  and  shoulders  must  be  aching.  But  he  kept  up  his 
rhythm  with  Tehei,  and  when  we  were  in  water  shoal  enough 
Tehei  rose  in  the  stern  and  poled  the  canoe  along  in  leaps. 
However,  the  squall  beat  us  out,  and  a  heavy  one  it  was. 
Tehei,  ever  keen  for  our  comfort,  insisted  upon  my  wearing 
his  hat — a  brown  felt  this  time,  of  indeterminate  age  and 
experience.  I  really  much  preferred  wet  hair ;  but  no  mortal 
but  a  prig  could  refuse  such  thoughtfulness  on  the  chance  of 
causing  hurt,  so  the  hat  went  on.  I  huddled  down  behind 
my  drenched  and  weather-battered  husband,  for  the  wind 
made  my  wet  clothes  feel  a  trifle  chilly.  We  were  willing 
to  go  the  whole  way  in  the  rain,  but  as  it  kept  increasing, 
Tehei  steered  into  a  little  indentation  where  stood  his 


196  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

brother's  house — a  mere  roof  of  thatch  above  a  raised  floor, 
built  half  over  the  water,  and  with  no  walls.  Here  the  in- 
mates, a  fat  and  jolly  native  and  his  pretty  young  wife, 
lounged  on  mats  and  grasses  in  an  abandon  of  the  simple  life, 
and  with  effortless  cordiality  welcomed  us  in  all  our 
bedragglement.  I  was  an  object  of  much  friendly  curiosity, 
for  besides  the  fact  that  a  white  woman  is  not  often  seen  in 
Tahaa,  the  fame  of  my  swim  across  Opunohu  Bay  had  gone 
before  me.  Jack  had  mentioned  the  incident  to  Tehei  the 
previous  day,  and  the  intelligence  had  spread.  I  never 
dreamed  that  my  feeble  three-quarters-of-a-mile  splashings 
would  attract  attention  among  the  amphibious  people  I  imag- 
ined in  the  South  Sea;  but  times  have  changed  in  this  re- 
spect as  in  others.  A  day  or  two  ago  two  men  in  the  bay 
off  Raiatea  were  much  alarmed  by  the  presence  of  an  enor- 
mous spotted  shark  which  insisted  upon  following  them. 
They  said  it  hung  perpendicularly  about  the  canoe,  opening 
and  shutting  its  huge  bristling  jaws  at  them. 

The  rain  pelted  harder  than  ever,  the  sky  grew  blacker, 
and  just  as  we  were  climbing  into  the  canoe  again  to  make  a 
dash  for  it,  we  heard  a  call,  and  along  the  road  came  Bihaura 
at  no  mean  gait,  in  her  arms  a  small  oval  tub  containing  white 
chemise  and  ahu,  covered  with  our  rubber  poncho.  She 
promptly  rescued  me  from  the  beached  canoe  and  hurried 
me  under  the  thatch  once  more,  bearing  the  tub  on  one  arm 
and  half-carrying  me  with  the  other,  her  solicitude  finding 
vent  in  a  stream  of  vociferation  against  the  heartless  ele- 
ments. Like  a  hen  demanding  the  best  for  her  chick, 
she  shoo'd  the  inmates  from  under  their  own  thatch,  that  I 
might  change  in  privacy ;  and  out  they  went,  with  no  ill  feel- 
ing. Probably  they  are  used  to  Bihaura 's  energetic  and  un- 
compromising methods.  When  dressed,  I  gathered  up  my 
skirts,  put  on  the  poncho,  overturned  the  little  galvanised 
tub  on  my  head,  and  climbed  into  the  canoe.  Bihaura  had 
disappeared  in  her  elfish  way  and  when,  after  a  stiff  paddle, 
we  beached  once  more  at  Tahaa  village,  she  was  waiting  at 
the  water 's  edge.  Wading  in,  she  took  possession  of  me,  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  197 

mothered  me  into  her  house,  without  a  word  placing  me 
before  an  inviting  heap  on  a  mat — a  fresh  chemise  and 
pretty  blue  ahu.  And  when  I  had  donned  these  garments, 
I  found  to  my  hand  a  rose  silk  Chinese  shawl,  embroidered  in 
lilac  wistaria,  and  heavily  fringed — probably  a  relic  of  her 
marriage  day.  Jack  was  furnished  with  dry  things,  and 
shortly  afterward  coffee  and  bread  were  brought.  A  couple 
of  hours  later  we  were  feasted  on  choice  roast  sucking-pig. 
It  was  raining  hard  when  we  sat  down  to  eat,  and  Tehei  and 
Bihaura,  leaving  Metua  to  attend  us,  picked  up  the  vessels  in 
which  they  had  brought  our  dinner,  and  made  as  if  to  return 
to-  the  shed  for  their  own  kai-kai.  But  this  was  a  little  too 
much,  and  we  refused  to  take  a  mouthful  unless  they  ate  in 
the  house.  Whereupon,  well  pleased,  all  three  squatted  on 
the  floor  and  proceeded  to  enjoy  themselves. 

In  the  morning  we  had  expressed  our  wish  to  return  to 
Raiatea  during  the  day,  and  now,  on  the  porch,  we  found 
many  baskets  of  limes,  fruit,  and  bunches  of  taro  and  greens, 
leaning  against  the  bamboo  walls  and  covered  with  braided 
cocoanut  fronds  against  the  slanting  "crystal  rods"  of  rain 
that  threatened  to  drive  inside  the  house.  These  edibles  we 
felt  sure  were  intended  for  the  Snark. 

The  weather  increased,  and  presently,  watching  the  hard 
squalls  travelling  toward  the  other  island,  we  began  to  wonder 
a  little  about  the  yacht  tugging  at  her  long  cable,  and  specu- 
lated whether  or  not  another  anchor  had  been  bent,  and  if 
the  captain  would  think  to  take  a  native  pilot  in  case  he  had 
to  move  the  yacht  around  the  island  to  better  shelter.  It  was 
a  queer  experience — away  off  on  this  island,  separated  from 
everything  that  was  ours  (even  the  cigarette  prospect  a 
dwindling  one  for  Jack),  sitting  cosily  in  fine  muslin  and 
silken  embroidery,  peering  through  a  windy  wall  of  bamboo 
at  the  small  gale  that  was  blowing  up  we  knew  not  what. 
We  could  see  a  cutter  and  a  canoe  weathering  the  wind  and 
rain,  out  there  in  the  smother  on  the  reef.  The  cutter  was 
running  under  bare  poles,  and  the  canoe  had  her  spritsail 
lashed  down  into  a  little  rag  of  a  leg  o'  mutton,  while  her 


198  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

men  weighed  down  the  outrigger  to  keep  her  right  side  up. 

Tired  watching,  we  loafed  on  the  big  bed  and  talked,  look- 
ing at  the  workmanship  of  this  house  not  made  with  nails, 
the  white  rafters'  naturally-arched  crossbeams,  and  the 
shingle-like  thatch.  Jack  fell  napping,  but  I  could  not  sleep 
for  the  loud  strong  wind  and  deluge  of  water  on  the  grassy 
roof ;  but  before  an  hour  had  passed,  the  blow  eased.  We  got 
into  our  weather  clothes  and  appeared  on  the  porch,  with  an 
expectant  look  that  raised  consternation  in  Bihaura 's  ma- 
ternal soul,  for  she  did  not  want  to  trust  her  feminine  pale- 
face protege  on  that  water.  But  she  obediently  went  in 
quest  of  Tehei,  and  a  cutter  was  hired,  the  price  for  carrying 
us  to  Raiatea,  $2.00  Chile,  being  carefully  explained  to  Jack 
by  Tehei. 

We  walked  through  the  village,  accompanied  by  Bihaura 
and  the  usual  following  of  curious  urchins,  and  halted  at 
an  old  cottage  that  had  once  been  painted  white,  where  lives 
the  one  white  resident  of  Tahaa,  Mr.  Lufkin,  a  native  of 
Massachusetts.  He  has  been  in  Tahaa  over  sixty  years,  off 
and  on,  and  now,  at  the  age  of  eighty-six,  a  victim  of  fee-fee, 
continues  on  in  his  chosen  land,  with  a  daughter  of  sixty. 
''She  is  all  I  have/'  he  said  plaintively,  and  the  slim  brown 
woman,  with  distinctive  New  England  features,  nodded  and 
smiled.  Tehei 's  arrival  put  an  end  to  our  visit,  and  we 
went  on  down  the  long  quay  of  earth  and  coral  and  shell. 

The  sail  in  the  staunch  and  fast  little  cutter  was  very  ex- 
citing. I  might  have  had  a  livelier  time  if  Bihaura  (who, 
with  Tehei,  went  with  .us)  had  not  kept  me  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  so  well  wrapped  that  I  could  see  nothing,  but 
only  feel.  There  is  no  saying  Bihaura  nay  when  she  chooses 
to  exercise  her  motherly  care.  She  herself  helped  in  the 
sailing  when  we  were  in  tight  places,  which  were  frequent, 
that  dripping  wrapper  of  hers  clinging  to  her  lithe  little 
body  like  a  sheath  of  skin.  Thunder  and  lightning  rolled 
and  cracked,  breakers  growled  and  roared  close  by  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  reef  over  which  we  were  slanting,  and  we 
had  to  tack  repeatedly  to  follow  the  channels  known  to  our 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  199 

boatmen.  At  length  the  squalls  came  so  fast  and  furious 
that  the  men  took  in  all  sail,  leaving  just  a  puff  of  canvas 
on  the  boom  to  insure  headway,  this  puff  being  held  and 
regulated  by  Bihaura's  small  brown  hands.  The  men  never 
had  to  tell  her  what  to  do.  .  .  .  "Do  you  know  where  you 
are?"  was  in  our  eyes  this  vivid  night  when  Jack  and  I 
looked  at  each  other  in  the  lightning. 

As  we  neared  Uturoa  we  saw  no  light  from  the  Snark  for 
guidance,  and  we  did  not  want  to  miss  her  in  this  ticklish 
weather,  when  the  howling  wind  from  seaward  and  any  mis- 
calculation in  the  darkness  might  cram  us  on  the  reef  close 
to  shore.  We  all  united  in  calling  this  very  careless  on  the 
part  of  the  Snark' 's  skipper.  "Aita  maitai,"  the  natives 
said,  shaking  their  heads  gravely.  And  it  certainly  was 
"Not  good." 

Then  we  began  dimly  to  discern  the  yacht  at  close  range, 
saw  a  light  going  toward  to  the  forestay,  and  as  we  swept 
astern  our  rope  was  thrown  to  a  man  who  had  climbed  into 
the  launch  to  receive  it.  That  man  proved  to  be  a  Japanese 
boy,  one  ever-faithful  Nakata;  but  the  weight  our  driven 
cutter  put  on  the  rope  was  too  much  for  him,  forcing  him, 
to  let  go.  We  heard  a  variety  of  foreign  languages  in  dis- 
tracted voices,  a  general  furore  and  lack  of  head  that  led  us 
to  infer  the  captain  was  not  aboard.  We  were  lost  to  the 
yacht  for  the  time,  drifted  to  the  wharf  and  got  on  the  lee 
side  of  it,  where  the  men  alternately  held  the  bounding  cutter 
off  and  held  on,  to  prevent  her  from  being  demolished. 

The  launch  then  came  spluttering  through  the  choppy  sea, 
in  charge  of  a  voluble  and  excited  Frenchman  and  an  equally 
excited  Japanese,  namely  Ernest  and  Nakata.  Ernest  landed 
from  the  weather  side  of  the  stone  quay,  leaving  poor  Nakata 
to  hold  the  boat  from  breaking  against  it.  Nakata,  doing  his 
small  best,  was  terrified  into  wild  ejaculations  for  fear  he 
would  fail — Nakata  has  ever  a  care  for  our  property. 

This  was  the  first  we  knew  that  Ernest  had  learned  to  run 
the  launch;  but  he  had  not  learned  it  any  too  thoroughly, 
and  now,  when  Jack  got  in  to  go  to  the  Snark  and  fetch  a 


200  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

line  to  the  cutter,  Ernest  could  get  no  spark  from  the  engine. 
So  they  rowed  through  the  smother,  and  poor  Jack  was  again 
reminded  that  for  a  year  he  has  been  asking  one  captain 
after  another  to  have  more  convenient  rowlocks  put  into  the 
launch.  However,  he  brought  the  line,  and  the  cutter  was 
drawn  safely  to  the  yacht. 

I  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  my  life  as  I  did  trying 
to  make  our  island  friends  comfortable.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  which  side  knew  the  greater  novelty.  We  had  full 
measure  of  it  with  them ;  and  to  them  our  electric  lights  and 
fans  were  miracles.  I  led  Bihaura  into  my  tiny  warm  state- 
room and  hunted  up  dry  garments ;  but  I  could  not  get  ahead 
of  her — she  had  brought  her  own  change !  I  then  ransacked 
ribbons  and  trinkets  for  gifts,  and  she  was  very  gleeful  in 
her  courteous  and  subdued  way. 

Wada  cooked  European  food  for  them,  opened  tins  of 
things  that  were  new  and  desired,  and  delighted  them  with 
a  heap  of  his  beautifully  cooked  rice,  of  which  they  are 
inordinately  fond  and  which  they  seldom  see.  We  put  them 
to  bed  in  the  cabin,  the  owner  of  the  cutter  included.  I 
should  be  happier  all  my  life  if  I  thought  we  had  given  Tehei 
and  his  little  vahine  half  the  pleasure  they  afforded  us. 

After  breakfast  next  morning,  they  returned  home  in  the 
cutter,  leaving  us  with  the  understanding  that  we  were  to 
pick  them  up  on  the  morrow  and  take  them  to  Bora-Bora  on 
the  Snark,  Jack  to  arrange  for  a  cutter  to  carry  them  back 
to  Tahaa  when  we  sailed  for  Samoa.  Bihaura,  as  she  bade  us 
good-bye,  said  in  the  words  of  old  King  Pomare  of  Tahiti: 
"E  mau  ruru  a  vau!"  ("I  am  so  happy!") 

When  Tehei  and  Bihaura  left  us  yesterday,  we  went 
to  our  work  as  usual,  and  after  the  midday  meal  Martin 
took  us  ashore  where  we  called  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vonnegut, 
who  had  sent  us  an  invitation  to  visit  them.  Martin 
tells  us  that  when  the  Snark  hove  in  sight  on  Monday 
outside  the  reef,  they  were  out  driving  and  immediately 
turned  homeward  to  make  ready  to  offer  us  quarters  ashore. 
And  we  did  not  go  near  Raiatea,  but  ran  off  in  a  crazy  canoe 


From  left  to  right:     Vaega,  Mrs.  London,  Mr.  Morrison,  Tuimanua 


Off  Manua 


Upolu 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  201 

to  Tahaa.  It  is  something  like  the  way  we  did  in  Honolulu 
— sailed  right  by  to  Pearl  Harbor,  and  stayed  there  a  month 
before  going  into  the  city. 

Mrs.  Vonnegut  is  a  jolly  soul,  Tahitian-born  but  of  Eng- 
lish parentage.  Upon  our  arrival  at  the  store  she  promptly 
sent  for  the  surrey,  and,  drawn  by  a  sorrowful  but  willing 
roadster  of  Liliputian  breed,  we  saw  some  of  the  country. 
The  little  bays,  with  their  thatched  huts,  and  the  mountains 
behind  reflected  in  the  water,  made  entrancing  pictures ;  and 
other  views  with  Tahaa  and  Bora-Bora  in  the  background, 
were  equally  lovely.  In  many  places  in  the  marsh  through 
which  the  road  runs,  grows  a  beautiful  sort  of  lily.  It  re- 
sembles a  hyacinth  in  form — many  blossoms  around  one  stem 
— but  is  larger,  and  the  overlapping  petals  have  eyes  like 
peacock  feathers,  with  the  difference  that  the  eyes  in  these 
flowers  are  canary  yellow,  set  in  blue  that  shades  through 
mauve  to  a  lavender  which  deepens  toward  the  outer  edges. 
The  leaf  is  almost  round,  ending  in  a  slight  point,  and  look- 
ing like  a  leaf  painted  with  one  masterly  stroke  of  a  broad 
brush  dipped  in  dark  green  pigment.  Jack  picked  me  one 
of  the  flowered  stalks,  but  it  soon  withered  and  discoloured. 

We  called  upon  the  French  Resident,  M.  Belonne,  and  his 
pretty  bride,  and  drank  tea  with  them  on  their  tree-sheltered 
bit  of  beach. 

Returning  to  Uturoa  from  our  northwest  drive,  we  passed 
through  the  village  south,  on  the  way  buying  a  basketful  of 
live  shrimps  from  a  woman  who  waded  in  from  the  near  reef 
at  Mrs.  Vonnegut's  call.  These  were  for  bait,  as  Jack 
planned  to  fish  off  the  yacht  after  dark,  asking  the  Vonneguts 
to  join  us. — And  while  we  were  fishing,  Martin  played  the 
searchlight  on  the  shore  for  the  amusement  of  the  natives, 
whom  we  could  hear  shouting  with  delight. 

Martin,  who  travelled  southward  some  miles  on  Raiatea, 
says  the  country  is  superb,  and  that  the  natives  live  very 
primitively  and  picturesquely;  but  Uturoa  is  not  pretty. 
The  example  of  the  misguided  missionaries  evidently  per- 
sisted here,  for  most  of  the  houses  are  European,  and  not 


202  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

attractive  European;  while  the  large  white,  staring,  uncom- 
promising warehouses  of  the  trading  companies  are  an  ex- 
asperating blight.  When  Mr.  Ellis,  nearly  a  century  ago, 
was  carried  out  of  the  water,  canoe  and  all,  by  the  welcom- 
ing natives,  upon  his  second  visit,  he  found  an  "  improve- 
ment "  since  his  first  coming  that  made  his  soul  rejoice: 
"We  called  upon  the  king,"  he  writes,  ''whom  we  were  de- 
lighted to  find  living  in  a  neat  plastered  house."  Isn't  that 
lovely? — And  if  said  king  did  not  contract  consumption  or 
asthma  or  phthisis,  through  the  unaccustomed  restriction  of 
air,  it  was  because  he  had  a  stronger  constitution  than  most 
of  his  kin  and  kind. 

Eaiatea  is  said  to  possess  some  interesting  relics  of 
antiquity.  One  of  these  is  the  ruin  of  an  old  temple  of 
human  sacrifice  which  was  once  enclosed  by  a  wall  built 
entirely  of  human  skulls — mainly  those  of  warriors  slain  in 
battle.  But  with  Bora-Bora  only  a  dozen  miles  away,  famed 
for  its  merry  people  and  pristine  life,  we  did  not  linger.  At 
one  o'clock  this  day  upon  which  I  am  writing,  April  9, 
Martin  started  off  the  engine  and  we  set  over  toward  Tahaa 
to  take  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tehei,  making  our  way  cautiously 
in  the  deeper  channels  among  the  coral.  It  was  the  bright- 
est of  mornings,  everything  sparkling,  a  gentle  breeze 
cooling  through  the  warm  sunshine,  breakers  curling 
white  on  the  barrier  reef  and  the  lagoon  painted  in  more 
hues  of  green  and  blue  than  man  can  name,  "nor  woman 
neither,"  I  found — blues  so  live  and  intense  that  the  eye 
was  caught  and  held  as  by  a  very  spell  of  colour;  greens 
brilliant  as  emerald  shot  with  sunlight,  or  soft  and  restful 
as  purest  jade.  In  this  riot  of  silken  colour,  broad  irregular 
splashes  of  elusive  plum-tints  marked  where  coral  rose 
near  the  surface.  Midway  between  the  two  mountainous 
islands,  we  all  agreed  upon  Tahaa  being  more  beautiful  than 
Eaiatea ;  and  during  the  day,  travelling  mile  after  mile  along 
the  dreaming  shores  of  the  smaller  island,  we  have  strength- 
ened our  belief.  It  is  an  enchanting  panorama  of  ram- 
bling hills  and  bays  and  islets,  with  high  Ohiri  lending 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  203 

a  strong  and  rugged  character  to  the  otherwise  verdant  round 
outlines  of  the  land. 

Tehei  hailed  from  the  cocoa-plumed  point  agreed  upon, 
and  indicated  that  we  were  to  go  back  to  the  village.  Which 
we  did,  first  taking  him  aboard.  Out  from  the  village  pad- 
dled three  large  canoes  so  laden  with  food  and  floral  offer- 
ings that  Captain  Warren  raised  his  hands  in  helpless  dis- 
may :  * '  My  goodness  gracious !  Where  are  we  going  to  put 
it  all!"  The  decks  were  littered  with  bunches  of  prime 
bananas,  both  green  and  ripe;  cocoanuts  of  all  edible  ages; 
papaias,  green  and  golden ;  endless  baskets  of  the  homely  but 
heavenly  yam;  a  few  oranges;  taro;  pumpkins;  bound  and 
protesting  chickens,  and  a  vociferous  and  reluctant  piglet; 
and  lastly,  a  diminutive  papaia  tree,  cut  down  in  all  its 
promise,  set  in  a  kerosene  can,  and  decorated  with  the  rarest 
flowers  of  the  island,  twined  around  the  fruit  at  the  top,  and 
stuck  into  the  pretty  leaves.  When  we  were  under  way, 
Tehei  and  his  wife  formally  presented  Jack  and  me  with  the 
sucking  pig,  the  chickens,  and  the  gay  papaia  tree,  along  with 
other  and  not  so  elaborate  bouquets.  The  fruit  and  vege- 
tables went  without  saying;  they  are  automatic  hereabout. 

Some  of  the  relatives  of  our  passengers  wanted  to  go  along 
too — one,  a  pretty  young  wife,  her  ears  decked  with 
large  real  pearls,  entreating  Jack  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
and  arguments  that  must  have  been  most  eloquent  if  mis- 
placed, judging  by  Bihaura's  disgusted  expression  at  this,  to 
her,  breach  of  breeding.  She  looked  somewhat  as  she  did  at 
her  own  house  when  a  vahine  dropped  familiarly  in  at  din- 
ner-time, and  tried  to  sell  us  chickens ! 

Tehei  appropriated  the  wheel  and  piloted  out  of  the 
harbour,  a  school  of  small  fishes  having  great  sport  in  the 
froth  kicked  up  by  the  propeller.  Bihaura,  seating  herself 
upon  the  deck  on  a  small  straw  mat  that  always  accompanies 
her  travels,  gazed  around  complacently  upon  this  big 
"bateau"  with  its  * ' mash-een, ' '  and  pronounced  it  all 
"maitai,"  and  again  "maitai." 

.  .  .  And  now,  I  have  been  writing  pretty  steadily  since 


204  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK 

we  left  Tahaa,  and  am  going  to  rest  and  look,  until  we  drop 
anchor  under  the  green  battlements  of  Bora-Bora. 


Lat.  16°  32'  South, 
Nearly  152°  West  Lon. 

Aboard  the  Snark, 
Teavanui  Harbor,  Bora-Bora,  Society  Islands, 

Friday,  April  10,  1908. 

In  the  sheltered  cockpit,  writing,  I  am  surrounded,  outside 
the  rail,  by  inquisitive  but  unobtrusive  natives  of  varying 
ages.  They  have  been  paddling  quietly  out  all  forenoon 
from  Vaitape  village  (called  Beulah  by  the  missionaries), 
lying  yonder  in  the  morning  shadow  of  Pahia,  which  rises 
almost  straight  up  2100  feet  close  behind.  One  might  sup- 
pose that  the  mountain  would  cut  off  from  Vaitape  the  pre- 
vailing wind;  but  the  trades  contrive  somehow  to  reach 
around  both  sides  of  the  peak,  and  the  climate  couldn't  be 
more  delightful. 

Bora-Bora  lies  only  about  twelve  miles  northwest  of  Tahaa ; 
but  it  was  after  moonrise  last  night  when  Martin  shut  down 
the  engine  and  the  anchor  rumbled  out,  for  the  harbour  is  to 
the  west  and  we  had  to  travel  nearly  around  the  island,  out- 
side an  endless  ring  of  reef  breakers  to  the  entrance,  a  fifth 
of  a  mile  wide.  After  the  sun  went  down,  Tehei  stood  in  the 
bow  with  the  captain,  Jack  at  the  wheel,  and  I  camped  amid- 
ships to  pass  orders  above  the  noise  of  the  engine.  We  were 
not  sorry  we  had  to  go  so  far  around,  as  we  saw  more  of  this 
matchless  isle.  We  realised  in  glorious  actuality  an  old  en- 
graving of  Consul  Dreher's;  only,  the  real  Bora-Bora  is  far 
lovelier  than  the  picture,  and  infinitely  more  majestic. 
Wonderful,  wonderful,  and  again  wonderful,  I  kept  repeat- 
ing— line  and  colour  changing  with  each  new  facet  of  this 
island  jewel.  During  sunset  the  land  was  all  rose  and  opal, 
turning  to  cool  restful  green.  The  islets  on  the  garlanding 
reef  stood  like  emeralds  against  a  green  lagoon;  green  hills 
grew  up  out  of  the  verdant  shore,  and  behind,  the  green, 
green  mountain  pierced  clouds  that  reflected  the  universal 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  205 

green.  Pahia  is  the  piece  de  resistance  in  all  views  of  Bora- 
Bora,  rising  sheer  and  double-peaked  and  palisaded,  hills 
leaning  against  it,  and  little  islands  flanking  round  about. 
The  Nuuanu  Pali  in  Hawaii  has  been  widely  painted  and 
photographed,  and  it  is  not  a  whit  more  worthy  than  Pahia 
of  Bora-Bora  with  the  perfect  composition  of  its  surround- 
ings. It  is  like  a  planet,  petrified  with  its  ring  of  satellites. 

After  Tehei  and  Bihaura  had  been  set  ashore  at  their  re- 
quest, Jack  said  to  me:  "What  do  you  say  we  go  over  for 
half  an  hour  or  so  ? "  Ernest  took  us  to  the  long  jetty,  and 
we  wandered  in  the  soft  cool  air,  attracted  by  music,  which 
was  accompanied  by  a  concerted,  regular  chug  as  of  some 
dull  and  toneless  instrument.  The  grass  grew  to  the  water 's 
edge,  and  on  this  village  green,  by  the  forgotten  graves  of 
the  decaying  Mission  church,  we  beheld  an  idyllic  pastorale 
of  youths  and  maidens  dancing  under  a  spreading  flam- 
boyante  to  the  strange  rhythmic  chant.  The  maids  were 
all  in  white,  garlanded  with  sumptuous  perfumed  wreaths 
of  allemanda  and  blumeria  and  tiare,  mixed  with  drooping 
grass-fringes,  the  men  likewise  garlanded,  and  girdled  in 
white  and  scarlet  pareus.  They  moved  in  twos  and  threes, 
arm  in  arm,  closely  around  the  mouth-organ  musicians 
in  the  centre,  like  bees  in  a  swarm.  The  curious  chug- 
chug  was  made  by  a  measured  grunt-grunt!  grunt-grunt! 
of  the  dancers.  There  was  witchery  in  it  all — the  wheel  of 
graceful  revolving  forms,  twining  brown  arms,  bright  eyes 
and  white  teeth  glistening  in  a  soft  and  scented  gloom  that 
the  moon  had  not  yet  touched;  and  the  last  least  veil  of 
enchantment  was  added  by  flitting  soft-glowing  lights 
amongst  the  dancers'  heads.  These  spots  of  soft  radiance 
were  curly  fragments  of  phosphorescent  fungus,  culled  from 
dead  and  dying  cocoanut  trees,  and  set  in  red  and  silken 
hibiscus  blossoms,  worn  over  the  ears  of  these  flower-like 
women — curled  flowers  of  captured  moonshine,  sometimes 
tender,  luminous  blue,  sometimes  evasive  green,  and  again 
mere  phosphorescent  white. 

One  of  the  girls,  encouraged  by  our  Japanese  boys  who 


206  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

were  gaily  mixing  with  the  company,  bashfully  gave  me  her 
moon-blossom  from  its  place  over  her  ear,  and  it  was  such 
an  exquisite  unearthly  thing  that  I  wished  I  might  keep  it 
forever. 

A  half-caste  merchant,  Mr.  Buchin,  who  runs  a  sort  of 
hotel,  came  over  to  us  and  passed  the  time  o'  night,  gra- 
ciously placing  his  services  at  our  disposal. 

After  clapping  a  few  more  dances  of  the  dusky  sprites, 
we  walked  south  along  the  beach  road,  like  a  pair  of  children 
in  dreamland,  peeping  into  open  lighted  doorways  of  habita- 
tions too  frail  to  be  the  abodes  of  human  beings;  looking 
straight  up  through  feathery  palm-tops  at  the  moon  peering 
over  the  mysterious  shadowy  mountain;  and  presently  we 
were  arrested  by  music  of  another  sort  than  that  under  the 
flamboyant e  tree.  "Himine!"  Jack  whispered,  holding  my 
arm  tighter  and  hastening  his  steps;  and  together  we  tip- 
toed to  a  large  oval  structure — just  an  immense  thatched 
roof  with  walls  of  low  picket.  Inside,  a  lantern  and  kero- 
sene lamp  disclosed  by  their  flicker  a  group  of  women  and 
men  sitting  on  a  large  mat  on  an  earth  floor  first,  spread 
with  dry  grass.  They  were  singing  himines  such  as  cos- 
mopolitan Tahiti  forgot  long  ago.  Vahines  composed  the 
front  ranks,  and  from  the  rear  came  the  remarkable  tones 
of  the  " kanaka  organ/'  heavy  ringing  voices  booming  like 
strings  of  'cello  and  bass  viol  picked  resonantly  by  giant 
thumbs.  Three  young  men,  leaf-crowned  like  wild  things 
of  the  forest,  with  a  frolicsome-eyed  Mowgli  at  their  head, 
swayed  from  the  hips,  their  foreheads  clear  to  the  floor  as 
they  trumpeted,  in  a  sort  of  sitting  dance — like  that  of  the 
Samoan  fita-fitas  on  the  Annapolis  in  Papeete  harbour. 

Singing  mothers  held  children  in  their  laps,  and  one 
girl,  a  perfect  type  of  the  heavy-featured,  dreamy-eyed 
Polynesian,  looked  wistfully  through  the  green  grass  fringe 
of  her  hei,  toward  where  she  knew  her  young  companions 
were  dancing  free.  But  she  held  her  important  own  in  the 
himine,  being  principal  high  voice.  I  do  not  say  soprano, 
for  there  are  no  natural  sopranos  in  savagedom.  So,  in 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  207 

order  to  emulate  the  high  tones  as  heard  among  the  mission- 
aries in  their  hymn-singing,  the  native  woman  forces  her 
chest  tones  up  into  the  head,  producing  a  true  note,  to  be 
sure,  but  a  harsh  and  strained  one.  I  have  yet  to  see  a 
vahine  who  can  take  a  high  tone  without  wrinkling  and  dis- 
torting her  face,  and  sometimes  she  even  reaches  up  and 
holds  one  side  of  her  face  as  she  climbs  the  register. 

Jack's  theory  of  this  difficulty  is  something  as  follows: 
That  the  lower  the  race,  the  less  differentiated  are  the  sexes ; 
the  women  are  stronger  in  proportion  to  the  men  than  are 
the  women  of  higher  civilisation,  and  so  on  down  the  line  of 
sex  characters,  even  the  voices  of  both  sexes  resembling. 

We  were  assigned  to  a  bench  by  a  grey-haired  elder,  and 
sat  there  half  an  hour  lost  in  pure  enjoyment  of  the  remark- 
able harmonies.  One  himine  especially  we  called  for  again 
and  again.  It  was  like  the  triumphant  shouting  song-cries 
of  successful  hunters  returning  from  the  forest;  or  like 
the  victorious  paean  of  warriors  bearing  home  slain  enemies 
from  the  mountain. 

We  trod  the  charmed  path  back  to  our  boat  rocking  in 
the  silver  flood,  and  went  to  sleep  in  our  little  floating  home, 
in  our  ears  the  organ  tones  of  Mowgli  and  his  wood-mates, 
and  the  wild  call  of  hunters  and  warriors  from  forest  and 
mountain. 


Bora-Bora,  Saturday,  April  11,  1908. 

Hands  full  of  gifts,  we  returned  this  morning  to  the  yacht 
after  early  coffee  and  hot-cakes  with  our  devoted  Tehei  and 
Bihaura  in  their  imposing  residence,  a  two-story,  four- 
roomed  house.  Yesterday  the  gendarme  in  authority  on 
Bora-Bora,  M.  Laborde,  not  waiting  for  us  to  look  him  up, 
came  aboard  resplendent  in  white  helmet  and  ducks  and 
military  medal  for  "Service  et  1'honneur,"  and  welcomed 
us  in  the  friendliest  way,  inviting  us  to  his  house,  granting 
unasked  hunting  privileges,  and  offering  us  "plentee  che- 
val."  Whereupon  we  ordered  our  saddle  case  out  of  the 


208  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

forepeak.  Everybody  is  the  same — it  is  smiles  and  la  ora 
nas,  abundantly  backed  with  practical  benefits.  Never  can 
we  balance  the  score — only  can  we  be  thankful  for  our 
lucky  hap. 

So  ashore  we  went  in  the  afternoon,  returned  M.  Laborde  's 
call,  and  met  Madame,  a  stately  French  woman  (probably 
the  only  white  one  on  the  island),  with  a  royal  braid  of 
brown  hair  hanging  nearly  to  the  floor.  Her  husband 
obligingly  conducted  us  to  the  house  of  the  old  chief  of  Bora- 
Bora,  Tavana  Tuhaa,  to  whom  we  had  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion from  his  cousin,  Terii  Marama — Susan  Bambridge. 
The  gendarme  humorously  explained  that  he  himself  was 
the  French  chief,  and  Tavana  was  kanaka  chief — with  a 
Frenchy  little  shrug  at  the  obvious  lack  of  Tavana 's  power. 
But  then,  M.  Laborde  is  directly  under  the  Resident  at 
Raiatea,  who  is  directly  under — but  no  more. 

At  a  dilapidated  European  house  we  were  greeted  by  a 
very  queen  of  kanakas,  a  splendid  big  woman — the  physical 
aristocracy  again.  But  she  was  clad  in  tatters  that  ill  con- 
cealed her  hideously  advanced  elephantiasis.  She  went  to 
fetch  her  husband,  and  the  two  wrecked  bodies  came  together 
up  the  neglected  garden  walk.  He  is  part,  white,  a  small, 
slight  man,  pitifully  disfigured  with  elephantiasis.  They 
were  very  quiet,  courteous,  and  unembarrassed  by  their  sick- 
ness. We  soon  left,  for  there  seemed  little  ground  upon 
which  to  meet.  After  this  we  dropped  in  to  see  Mr. 
Buchin.  As  we  were  due  at  Tehei's  for  dinner  at  five,  we 
sauntered  early  in  their  direction,  passing  on  our  way  the 
big  himine  house.  Bless  us,  if  they  weren  't  singing  yet ! — 
or  had  they  rested  off  in  the  night? — the  same  three  wood- 
boys,  the  girl  we  call  The  Type,  and  the  rest.  The  elder 
hailed  us  in,  hospitably  enough,  but  with  tone  and  gesture 
of  one  accustomed  to  authority. 

Seeing  a  number  of  large  rough  tables  piled  around,  and 
a  great  mound  of  fruit,  vegetables,  and  fowls,  we  concluded 
that  preparations  for  a  feast  were  under  way.  Never  did 
we  hazard  more  widely.  After  listening  to  a  number  of 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  209 

"selections,"  and  to  a  repetition  of  our  especial  favourite, 
the  fiery  ferine  chorus,  the  astounding  thing  happened. 

A  fine  looking  man  arose  from  the  grass,  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  heap  of  edibles  with  a  graceful  flourish,  and 
began  to  speak.  As  he  proceeded,  we  at  length  caught  the 
unbelievable  drift  of  his  discourse.  He  was  presenting  us 
with  this  bounty.  But  why?  We  made  deprecatory  and 
declining  signs,  and  the  orator  disappointedly  subsided.  We 
were  very  uncomfortable — we  could  not  accept  so  great  a 
gift.  Why  should  we?  How  could  we?  We  could  make 
no  fitting  return,  and  we  have  heard  of  an  unwritten  law, 
that  a  gift  in  this  part  of  the  world  means  a  gift  in  exchange 
for  a  gift.  Also,  the  yacht  would  not  be  able  to  accommo- 
date such  abundance  of  kai-kai  in  addition  to  the  quantity 
already  taken  aboard  at  Tahaa. 

So  we  sat  and  uneasily  listened  to  another  himine  from 
men  and  women  with  baffled,  reproachful  eyes,  while  the 
grey  elder  fidgeted  with  a  hurt  and  displeased  air. 

The  song  finished,  he  arose  stiffly  and,  advancing  toward 
the  mooted  offering,  himself  presented  it  to  us  in  an  address 
with  many  flourishes.  Still  we  hesitated.  We  simply  did 
not  know  how  to  act.  And  suppose  we  had  possibly  made  a 
mistake  in  our  interpretation  of  their  meaning,  and  com- 
mitted an  awful  breach  of  etiquette?  Judging  by  the  frus- 
trated elder 's  face,  when  we  again  declined  the  unprece- 
dented munificence,  we  were  already  guilty.  We  felt  very 
foolish ;  but  we  lacked  information,  and  were  anxious  to  get 
hold  of  some  one  who  could  set  us  straight.  To  ease  the 
strain,  we  asked  for  another  himine,  after  which  we  retreated 
as  well  as  we  could,  hopeful  of  finding  some  way  to  come  to 
a  rational  understanding  over  such  an  irrational  situation. 

When  we  reached  Tehei's  house,  he  explained,  with  the 
help  of  Nakata,  who  had  been  washing  and  ironing  there,  that 
kai-kai  was  not  ready,  and  that  we  were  to  take  a  walk  with 
Bihaura.  Captain  Warren  and  Martin  had  also  been  in- 
vited, and  we  five  struck  south  and  caught  a  view  of  the 
next  bay  before  sunset. 


210  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

"We  passed  a  "lumber-yard,"  or  so  Martin  named  it, 
where,  upon  racks  under  long  sheds,  were  laid  for  sale  sup- 
plies of  thatch:  Long  dry  leaves  of  pandanus  are  strung 
on  to  five-foot  lengths  of  reed,  made  fast  to  the  reed  by  over- 
lapping one  end  of  the  leaf  and  pinning  it  with  the  midrib 
of  the  cocoanut  frond  run  through  from  leaf  to  leaf  hori- 
zontally, until  the  rafters  are  covered.  Sometimes  it  takes 
three  thousand  or  more  of  these  fringed  reeds  to  roof  a 
fair-sized  house.  The  thatching  will  last  about  seven  years, 
and  no  roofing  equals  it  for  coolness — or  for  centipedes. 

We  noticed  before  some  of  the  houses  canoe-shaped  wooden 
trenches  several  feet  long,  full  of  sago  in  the  making. 
Farther  on  we  flushed  a  number  of  blue  heron,  as  well  as 
snipe,  and  a  few  ducks,  and  promptly  recollected  Laborde's 
permission  to  shoot.  Captain  Warren  took  a  gun  out  this 
morning  and  we  had  fried  snipe  and  wild  duck  for  luncheon. 

Jack  and  I  had  made  it  up  together,  on  account  of  mos- 
quitoes, that  we  would  somehow  get  around  the  wishes  of 
Tehei  and  his  wife  for  us  to  spend  the  night  ashore ;  but  we 
changed  our  minds  once  we  were  inside  our  room,  not  be- 
cause we  feared  the  mosquitoes  less  but  that  we  feared  hurt- 
ing our  friends  more. 

Our  room  was  large  and  many-windowed,  and  had  two 
wide  beds  dressed  in  perfect  triumphs  of  scarlet  patterned 
quilts  and  snowy  belaced  pillows.  "She  noticed  we  had 
separate  bunks  on  the  boat,"  Jack  whispered.  The  floor 
was  thick  with  beautiful  plaited  mats,  Bihaura's  weaving; 
and  there  was  provision  in  the  corner  for  washing.  On  the 
floor  between  the  beds  was  that  red  and  white  basket  I  had 
admired  on  the  passage,  and  which  was  now  mine.  Beside 
it  lay  some  pretty  seashells. 

They  had  not  wanted  us  to  come  to  their  house  until  it 
was  quite  prepared,  this  lady  and  gentleman  of  Polynesia; 
and  when  we  went  from  our  bedchamber  into  the  next  room 
where  the  dinner  table  creaked  with  its  weight,  we  knew  by 
these  signs  and  by  their  tired  and  anxious  faces  that  they 
had  worked  themselves  nearly  sick.  But  they  were  so  bliss- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  211 

fully,  affectionately  happy  over  our  appreciation,  that  their 
eyes  and  lips  broke  into  loving  smiles  whenever  we  looked  at 
them. 

On  a  small  side  table  stood  two  newly  plaited  green  bas- 
kets full  of  all  kinds  of  flowers,  and  beside  them  a  more  en- 
during present.  This  was  a  miniature  double-canoe  carved 
by  Tehei,  and  rigged  with  the  native  tackle  for  hooking  large 
fish — a  long  bamboo  pole  amidships  between  the  two  boats. 
When  a  fish  is  caught,  the  pole  is  jerked  high  in  air,  the 
line  flies  backward  and  the  fish  is  brought  to  hand.  This 
toy  is  a  perfect  representation,  even  to  the  shell  fish-hook. 
And  to  cap  it  all,  a  gigantic  wooden  fish  depended  from  the 
pole — this  last  Bihaura 's  work,  carving,  pink  and  blue  colour- 
ing and  all. 

Next  we  were  crowned  with  white  tiare  and  led  to  the 
board.  The  Horn  of  Plenty  had  been  spilled  upon  it! 
There  was  roast  sucking-pig,  done  to  a  nicety;  and  fowl, 
dressed  with  delicious  gravy  and  browned  onions ;  breadfruit 
and  the  usual  native  vegetables ;  raw  fish  in  our  pet  dressing ; 
fresh-water  shrimps;  baked  fish;  banana  poi,  cocoanut  milk 
— and  I  cannot  remember  any  more,  except  the  good  coffee 
and  French  bread,  and  many  kinds  of  fruit. 

The  centrepiece  was  a  bouquet  of  strange  flowers  resem- 
bling ears  of  wheat,  anywhere  from  one  to  two  feet  long. 
At  the  end  of  each  was  attached  a  blossom  of  some  other  kind, 
even  to  white  jasmine. 

A  step  forward  in  intimacy  was  made,  Bihaura  taking 
her  place  beside  me.  Tehei  declined  all  urging,  pretending 
that  he  was  needed  to  look  after  the  cookshed.  But  he  was 
absent  very  little.  The  two  were  evidently  agreed  on  this 
arrangement,  so  we  let  them  have  it  their  own  way.  Bihaura 
was  so  tired  she  could  hardly  eat;  also,  she  was  in  a  flutter 
lest  she  do  something  wrong.  She  watched  our  every  mouth- 
ful and  the  manner  of  the  taking — which  fork,  or  spoon, 
or  dish.  But  after  a  while  she  became  more  at  ease,  and 
later  was  drinking  our  health  in  flagons  of  cocoanut,  and 
jumping  up  and  down  in  her  seat  at  our  suggestion  of  bring- 


212  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ing  the  Victor  ashore  and  giving  a  concert.  You  see,  we 
are  cudgeling  our  brains  for  ways  to  offset  the  favours  we 
are  continually  receiving.  Tehei  never  comes  near  us  empty- 
handed.  Martin,  noticing  that  the  Seth  Thomas  clock  on 
the  wall,  an  "octagon-drop,"  was  not  working,  offered  to 
repair  it,  and  the  gratitude  of  the  owners  knew  no  bounds. 

We  had  to  be  careful  what  we  admired.  I  remarked  an 
elaborate  straw  hat  tastefully  trimmed  with  a  blue  feather, 
and  asked  Bihaura  if  she  made  it.  She  nodded  and  said 
something  to  her  husband,  and  he  took  up  the  hat  and  pre- 
sented it  to  me.  Of  course  I  refused  to  accept  it;  and  so 
sensitive  are  they,  that  they  instantly  divined  the  situation, 
and  acknowledged  the  refusal  in  good  part.  But  Bihaura 
went  into  the  other  room,  and  returned  with  a  thirty-foot 
length  of  hat  braid,  plaited  of  straw  so  fine  that  the  entire 
roll  hardly  covers  my  hand.  This  I  could  take — but  not 
her  best  chapeau.  It  was  a  relief  that  they  did  not  pick  up 
the  mats  from  the  floor  and  give  them  to  us. 

After  dinner  we  all  sat  on  the  porch,  with  fairy  fungus 
lanterns  over  our  left  ears.  Tehei  was  so  weary  that  he 
slipped  off  to  the  end  of  the  porch  and  lay  down.  From 
somewhere  came  to  me  the  memory  of  an  old  sweet  custom 
in  the  Marquesas,  of  friends  exchanging  names,  thereby 
inaugurating  a  relationship.  So,  tapping  Bihaura  on  the 
breast  I  said,  distinctly,  "Charmian,"  and,  tapping  myself, 
"Bihaura."  It  was  an  inspiration.  She  understood,  and 
repeated  the  formula  gravely  and  reverently,  whereupon  we 
kissed  as  sisters.  Jack  so  approved  that  he  tried  it  with 
Tehei.  And  now  we  often  call  him  ' '  Brown  Brother. ' '  This 
is  the  favour  they  love.  The  worst  of  it  is,  that  they  now 
try  to  get  even  with  us  for  this  greatest  of  all  honour  we 
have  bestowed! 

We  suggested  himine,  hoping  that  Tehei,  on  the  spot, 
might  unravel  the  mystery  at  the  singing  house.  The  sing- 
Vig  was  in  full  blast  when  we  arrived  and  we  could  see 
aggrievement  still  on  the  face  of  the  elder,  although  he  was 
punctiliously  polite.  The  pyramid  of  fruit  and  gasping 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  213 

chickens  was  untouched.  It  was  not  long  before  Tehei 
brought  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  misapprehension.  It 
proved  true  that  we  were  expected  to  accept  this  friendly 
largess ;  but  Tehei,  quickly  catching  the  drift  of  our  protest 
against  the  magnitude  of  it,  explained  that  we  should  be  glad 
to  have  say  two  of  each  kind  of  article.  Amity  was  restored, 
and  Jack  laid  aside  two  hens,  two  bunches  of  taro,  two  clus- 
ters of  bananas,  and  so  on. 

Then  we  all  sat  down  happily  to  the  music.  The  captain 
and  Martin,  classically  wreathed,  lounged  on  a  curving 
bench — an  Alma  Tadema  strayed  into  the  barbaric  picture. 
There  were  more  singers  and  more  sitting  dancers.  One  rose 
in  the  flickering  light  and  performed  the  most  beautiful 
dance  of  welcome,  bending  his  lithe  body  back,  with  extended 
arms;  pressing  his  hand  to  his  brown  breast  as  he  swayed 
forward ;  in  every  pose  expressing  that  all  Bora-Bora 
was  ours.  And  through  it  he  sang,  with  a  voice  like  a  bell, 
so  ringing,  so  smooth,  so  rich  in  tone  and  expression,  that 
it  stays  in  my  ears  like  a  song  heard  overnight  in  a  dream. 
He  was  the  most  captivating  boy — captivating  and  uncap- 
turable,  in  his  half-wild  spirit.  If  we  had  reached  out  to 
grasp  the  welcoming  hands  of  his  dance,  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  vanished  furtively  into  the  woods,  with  his  sinewy 
young  body,  his  red  mouth  curling  back  over  flashing  teeth, 
his  bird-like  eyes,  his  light,  small  feet  with  the  toes  spread 
like  a  bird's.  Sometimes  he  leaned  forward,  looking  closely 
into  our  eyes  in  the  uncertain  light,  like  some  questioning 
forest  animal  or  sprite. 

I  do  not  believe  the  grey  elder  will  ever  quite  forgive  the 
unintentional  slight  we  put  upon  him  and  his  followers. 
Although  he  failed  in  no  detail  of  courtesy,  it  was  but  a  limp 
hand  we  wrung  upon  parting.  If  he  could  only  understand, 
as  Tehei  understands. 

.  .  .  The  many  windows  in  our  bedroom  were  a  delusion, 
all  but  one  which  had  a  couple  of  panes  out.  And  upon  bid- 
ding us  good  night,  Tehei  and  his  vahine  were  at  great 
trouble  to  shut  both  doors  tightly.  When  a  savage,  accus- 


214  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

tomed  to  the  air  of  all  outdoors,  comes  to  live  in  a  house 
with  windows,  he  seems  to  think  they  are  made  to  nail  up — 
else  why  should  they  be  furnished  with  glass? 

We  got  the  doors  open,  meanwhile  more  than  vaguely 
aware  that  we  were  inoffensively  spied  upon  by  inquisitive 
neighbours;  but  the  windows  were  tighter  than  the  storm- 
windows  in  a  Maine  winter.  We  had  not  noticed  a  mosquito 
during  the  evening,  so  turned  into  our  fluffy  beds  trustingly. 
— They  didn't  sing,  they  didn't  even  bite;  they  just  threat- 
ened, they  alighted,  they  pestered ;  and  there  was  no  way  for 
the  breeze  to  get  into  the  sealed  apartment  and  blow  the 
wretched  things  about. 

.  .  .  There  is  no  getting  around  the  fact  that  our  host 
and  hostess  are  suddenly  become  of  high  importance  among 
their  neighbours.  Did  they  not  arrive  as  guests  on  the 
"masheen  bateau,"  and  were  they  not  taking  first  place  in 
entertaining  the  white  visitors?  But  do  not  think  for  an 
instant  that  this  figures  in  their  kindness  to  us.  One  look 
into  their  faces  precludes  such  possibility.  The  little  woman 
sat  beside  me  at  the  himine,  and  if  I  leaned  toward  her  in  the 
least,  she  would  nestle  closer,  and  clasp  my  hand — bridging 
with  sheer  lovingness  and  trust  all  time  and  difference  of 
race.  Returning  up  the  moonlit  road  that  night,  Bihaura 
and  I  with  arms  around  each  other,  Tehei  stalking  with 
exalted  awkwardness  arm  in  arm  with  Jack,  with  a  hundred 
following  us,  we  were  so  full  that,  once  alone  in  our  room 
we  could  only  look  at  each  other  with  moist  eyes.  Finally 
Jack,  wandering  around  with  a  hopeless  look,  arms  hanging, 
said  in  a  discouraged  voice:  "I  can't  understand  it.  It's 
overwhelming.  I  simply  don 't  know  what  to  say. ' '  A  min- 
ute afterward  he  added:  "Wouldn't  it  be  an  awful  thing 
stupidly  to  hurt  them  in  any  way?" 

It  gives  new  lights  upon  cannibalism  as  practised  on  white 
sea  captains  who  requited  love  and  courtesy  like  this  with 
deception  and  abuses  worse  than  death. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  215 

Sunday,  April  12,  190& 

Aside  from  an  early  walk  with  our  guns,  this  has  been 
a  restfully  uneventful  day,  if  there  is  anything  uneventful 
about  lying  at  anchor  off  a  South  Sea  island  as  extraordinary 
as  Bora-Bora.  In  the  evening  we  were  due  to  join  Tehei 
and  Bihaura,  to  go  to  the  phonograph  concert.  Tehei 's  re- 
suscitated Seth  Thomas  was  pointing  to  ten  minutes  before 
seven  as  we  entered.  It  had  struck  me  that  I  should  do 
my  brown  sister  the  courtesy  of  at  least  one  appearance  in 
strictly  conventional  attire ;  so  I  had  brought  a  rose-flowered 
ahu.  I  knew  Bihaura  was  pleased,  although  never  by  look 
or  word  has  her  perfect  ladyhood  betrayed  sign  that  there 
was  anything  out  of  the  way  about  my  clothes — whether 
bathing-suit,  pajamas,  or  bloomers. 

The  machine-made  concert  in  the  himine  house  was  such 
a  success  that  we  knew  we  had  hit  upon  the  one  thing  to 
square  favours.  What  mattered  it  that  the  machine  had  less 
springs  than  usual,  warning  us,  by  sundry  whirs  and  clicks 
and  obstinate  halts  of  the  crank,  that  it  would  throw  up  the 
job  if  we  did  not  look  sharp?  The  man  behind,  one  newly 
baptised  Tehei  London,  had  a  warm  and  perspiring  time  of 
it. 

.  .  .  The  comfort  and  sense  of  home  Jack  and  I  now  feel 
aboard  the  Snark  is  inexpressible.  My  little  white  cubby  is 
a  place  of  refuge  and  privacy,  clean  and  convenient.  The 
deck  is  immaculate  with  lime-juice,  and  clear  of  boats — a 
roomy,  breezy  place  for  work  or  play  or  sleep.  Think  of 
scrubbing  decks  with  the  juice  of  limes!  Why,  I  help 
squeeze  them  in  the  tub  for  this  purpose,  submerging  my 
arms  to  the  elbows  in  the  bleaching,  softening  fluid.  I 
also  tried  trampling  out  the  juice  with  my  bare  feet,  to  Jack's 
great  amusement. 

There  is  only  one  drawback  to  life  aboard — the  swarm  of 
cockroaches,  large,  medium,  and  small.  We  have  joined  the 
fleet  of  ' '  cockroach  schooners, ' '  the  attractive  name  by  which 
Society  Island  trading  vessels  are  known.  We  are  fighting 
the  bugs,  hand,  foot,  nail,  and — I  had  almost  said  tooth. 


216  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Anyway,  I  can  bring  my  fist  down  on  a  cockroach  with  the 
best,  provided  it  isn't  one  of  the  largest.  My  qualms  are 
still  insistent  that  I  shall  not  squash  a  shell-backed  mon- 
strosity full  of  blood  that  is  white! 


Aboard  the  Snark,  at  sea, 
Society  Islands  to  Samoa, 
Wednesday,  April  15,  1908. 

There  goes  the  graceful  white  cutter  headed  back  for  Tahaa 
under  a  cloud  of  canvas,  while  the  Snark  surges  westward. 
From  the  stern  of  the  cutter  a  white-robed  woman  waves 
her  handkerchief,  and  upon  the  stern  rail  of  the  Snark  Tehei 
is  bowed  in  prayer  and  tears — rioniata,  tears  and  sorrow. 
He  did  not  know  how  hard  it  was  going  to  be,  the  big  brown 
child-man,  this  parting  from  his  little  brown  woman.  He 
wanted  to  go,  and  she  was  willing ;  but  the  pain  of  parting,- 
beginning  yesterday,  when  Jack  and  I  made  up  our  minds  to 
take  him,  was  worse  than  they  had  bargained  for.  She  was 
brave ;  but  to-day,  coming  to  eat  the  last  meal  with  him,  she 
sat  in  my  room,  bent  over  with  grief,  while  I  frantically 
pawed  my  belongings  to  find  gifts  for  her,  beginning  with 
a  fine  hanky  to  wipe  away  her  tears.  Tehei  went  about  with 
salt  trickles  running  down  his  cheeks,  reiterating  "Maitai, 
maitai  ariana,"  with  rebellious  courage,  when  we  laid  a 
sympathising  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

He  joined  us  this  morning  with  his  scant  luggage,  also 
bringing  for  me  one  of  Bihaura's  enormous  tree-cotton  pil- 
lows wrapped  in  a  many-times-folded  mat  some  seven  feet 
square,  and  a  smaller  mat,  exquisitely  fine.  In  addition, 
Tehei  brought  more  vegetables  and  fruit,  and  Mr.  Buchin 
rowed  out  with  some  South  Sea  cotton — not  the  tree-cotton, 
— a  basket  of  ripe  pomegranates,  and  a  parcel  of  vanilla- 
beans.  Then  arrived  thirteen  chickens  we  had  bought  on  a 
wonderful  horseback  ride  around  the  island — accompanied 
by  presents  of  fruit  until  the  yacht  was  fairly  wreathed  with 
bananas,  pineapples,  baskets  of  oranges  and  limes,  and  her 
decks  choked  with  yams,  taro,  pumpkins,  cucumbers,  and  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  217 

dozen  other  comestibles.  Bihaura's  final  offering  was  a 
sucking-pig — such  a  homesick,  disgusted,  obstinate  puaa 
never  came  aboard  a  ship.  It  persistently  pulls  its  foreleg 
out  of  tether  and  essays  perilous  journeys  to  the  rail.  Tehei 
himself  cannot  make  that  wee  porker  fast. 

"They  have  placed  us  on  the  High  Seat  of  Abundance," 
Jack  mused,  his  eyes  very  blue  with  feeling. 

And  now  we  are  really  westing  toward  Samoa,  about  1200 
miles  from  Tahiti.  We  have  fair  wind  and  sea,  and  are 
glad  to  be  sailing.  I  am  looking  forward  to  a  few  uninter- 
rupted days  for  work,  and  might  as  well  begin  right  away 
and  tell  about  yesterday's  stone-fishing: 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  conches  that  were  to  rouse 
the  inhabitants  in  the  morning.  When  the  heavy  resonant 
tones  broke  the  stillness,  I  sleepily  wondered  if  a  tramp 
steamer  had  strayed  in,  or  perhaps  a  cruiser;  then  turned 
over  and  slept  again.  It  was  just  as  well.  Although  the 
starting-time  had  been  seven,  and  Jack  had  given  up  work, 
we  did  not  get  away  until  ten. 

"Here  they  come!"  Martin  shouted,  and  there  they  cer- 
tainly came!  It  was  a  gorgeous  spectacle.  Imagine  the 
deep-blue  lagoon,  encircled  with  green  islands  of  all  sizes 
and  forms,  and,  coming  toward  you  a  barge  that  rivalled 
Cleopatra's — a  gigantic  double-canoe,  "manned"  by  a  round 
dozen  splendid  brown  girls,  all  in  white  with  red  scarves 
knotted  about  the  hips,  garlanded  and  crowned  like  tropi- 
cal May  Queens.  In  the  stern  of  each  of  the  joined  canoes 
sat  a  huge  muscular  savage,  likewise  crowned,  naked 
to  the  waist,  both  smiling  under  the  hot  sun  like  the  hap- 
piest creatures  ever  created.  On  a  platform  across  the 
bows  Bihaura  and  Tehei,  decked  in  scarlet  and  crowned  with 
orange-coloured  cosmos,  swayed  and  bent,  bowed  and  ges- 
tured in  the  graceful  abandon  of  their  native  dancing.  We 
could  hardly  recognise  the  prim  and  housewifely  Bihaura 
in  this  radiant  undulating  woman ;  nor  had  we  realised  how 
handsome  our  swart  brother  could  be.  Sometimes  they 
leaned  forward  from  the  prow,  for  all  the  world  like  Poly- 


218  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

nesian  Winged  Victories  challenging  wind  and  sea  with  de- 
fiant, irresistible  figures  of  bronze.  And  all  the  time  they 
sang,  and  the  girls  sang  in  chorus,  knocking  rhythmic 
paddles  against  the  canoes  in  unison,  between  dips. 

Three  times  around  the  yacht  they  swept,  then  ranged 
alongside — a  careful  undertaking,  for  a  long  bamboo  fishing- 
rod  was  thrust  forward  from  the  bows,  decked  with  festoons 
of  flowers.  We  welcomed  the  beauties  aboard,  and  after 
some  formal  speechifying  by  Tehei  and  the  boatmen,  we  all 
embarked  in  that  gay  ' '  bateau. ' '  As  soon  as  we  were  settled 
on  the  tiny  platform,  the  fair  paddlers  got  under  way,  and 
resumed  their  singing,  while  our  brown  relatives  took  up 
their  performance  where  they  left  off.  In  the  midst  of  the 
musical  clamour  a  languid-eyed  houri  rose,  climbed  up  to 
us,  and,  dancing  the  most  alluring  hula  before  me,  bent  in 
her  dancing  and  embraced  me,  the  while  dabbing  my  face 
with  fluttery  kisses  from  lips  cool  and  soft  as  blumeria  blos- 
soms. She  repeated  this  fond  greeting  to  Jack,  and  danced 
back  to  her  paddle. 

Looking  down  the  double  row  of  dusky  girls,  performing 
so  easily  the  arduous  work  of  propelling  such  great  loaded 
canoes,  we  were  almost  startled  by  the  seeming  varied  root- 
types  among  them.  Yet  they  were  probably  pure  Bora- 
Boran  from  time  out  of  mind.  There  we  saw  a  face  that 
would  have  done  honour  to  a  North  American  wigwam ;  two 
moon-faced  sisters  with  languishing,  sleepy  eyes,  were  strik- 
ingly Chinese;  while  one  maiden  would  easily  have  passed 
for  a  Persian.  Another  was  elusively  Japanesque;  and  a 
slender  paddler  on  the  right  was  a  good  American  type. 
And  so  on  down  the  line:  some  were  intellectual  in  feature 
and  expression  and  shape  of  forehead;  some  innocent-faced, 
some  sophisticated ;  some  wise,  some  frivolous ;  and  each  one  a 
beauty,  with  strong,  brown  body  and  limbs,  inexhaustible 
spirits,  and  the  desire  of  fun  in  her  brown  eyes. 

It  was  a  pull  of  several  miles  to  the  shallow  point  where 
the  manoeuvring  was  to  be,  and  our  garlanded  crew  sang 
all  the  way,  with  untired  lungs,  occasionally  breaking  out 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  219 

in  some  old  wild  cry  that  had  to  do  with  the  custom  of  stone- 
fishing.  Once  in  a  while  a  little  squall  would  rush  down  the 
mountain  and  give  them  all  the  work  they  could  handle, 
while  Bihaura  shouted,  "Hoe  Hoe"  (Paddle!  Paddle!)— the 
word  we  learned  in  the  surf  canoes  at  Waikiki. 

To  help  along  the  cheer,  I  essayed  a  little  hula  dance  of 
my  own,  for  was  I  not  one  of  them  this  day,  and  did  I  not 
wear  a  white  waist  and  a  red  pareu  and  a  yellow  hei,  with 
the  best!  Oh,  they  were  vociferous  in  their  applause  and 
their  cries  of  "Maitai!  Maitai!  Maitai  nui!"  It  com- 
pletely won  them,  that  little  tripping  of  mine  off  the  beaten 
track. 

When  we  were  hauled  up  on  the  white  shallows,  I  was 
borne  ashore  high  and  dry,  pick-a-back,  by  a  laughing  vahine, 
while  one  of  the  jolly  steersmen  did  Jack  a  like  service.  The 
palmy  point  was  dotted  with  the  tribe,  and  we  were  led  to 
a  thatch  on  the  sand,  under  which  we  reclined  in  the  midst 
of  our  crew,  who  took  up  their  himines  again,  sitting  in  a 
circle.  One  of  the  steersmen  was  an  actor  and  improvisa- 
teur,  delivering  himself  of  the  most  touching  tones  of  appre- 
ciation of  our  joy-giving  presence.  Outside  gathered  the 
clans,  and  on  the  beach  a  crowd  surrounded  the  captain  and 
Martin  in  the  launch. 

There  seemed  to  be  some  delay,  some  hitch  in  the  proceed- 
ings. Things  did  not  appear  to  be  going  forward,  and  we 
learned  that  there  had  been  disagreement  among  the  factions 
— one  faction  would  not  fish  with  another,  and  so  forth. 
Now,  the  grand  feature  of  stone-fishing  is  the  number  of 
canoes — a  hundred  should  be  in  the  crescent  that  spreads 
out  upon  the  reef  and  narrows  and  draws  in  to  where  the 
women,  standing  in  the  water  at  the  beach,  holding  a  net  of 
cocoa  leaves,  close  the  crescent  into  a  circle,  and  thus  cap- 
ture, the  driven  fish.  Only  about  twenty  canoes  had  an- 
swered the  blasts  of  the  conches,  and  here  we  were,  likely  to 
be  robbed  of  our  stone-fishing.  At  last,  through  the  inter- 
vention of  M.  Laborde  and  Tehei,  it  was  arranged  that  the 
twenty  canoes  would  see  what  they  could  do.  We  embarked 


220  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

in  the  launch,  with  Captain  Warren  at  the  engine,  Martin 
remaining  ashore  to  take  pictures. 

When  the  twenty  canoes  had  spread  in  a  wide  crescent 
on  the  shell-green  water,  with  the  breaking  wall  of  thunder- 
ous breakers  at  reef-edge,  we  could  realise  the  disad- 
vantage of  there  being  so  few,  and  tried  to  imagine  how  a 
hundred  would  look.  There  was  a  flag-canoe,  and,  when  all 
were  in  position,  a  man  dropped  the  flag — a  red  and  white 
pareu  on  a  stick — from  side  to  side.  At  every  drop,  a  kan- 
aka at  the  bow  of  each  canoe  beat  the  water  with  a  stone  on 
a  string.  It  was  a  remarkable  scene  of  action.  Running 
our  eyes  along  the  crescent,  we  saw  the  white  spray-smoke  of 
the  stone-thresh  on  the  water,  then  the  brown  forms  lifting 
and  swinging  the  stone  again.  Tehei,  in  our  bow,  swung 
with  the  best,  and  when  he  lost  the  stone  from  its  string,  in- 
stantly followed  it  overside,  promptly  rising  with  it  in 
his  hand.  I  picked  up  his  floating  orange  wreath  and  put 
it  dripping  on  his  black  head  as  he  emerged. 

The  line  of  canoes  drew  in  and  in,  beating  and  beating, 
and  we  saw  the  vahines  forming  their  barrier  of  legs  and 
cocoa  leaves.  Our  launch  behaved  beautifully  until  almost 
the  end,  when  the  canoes  had  constricted  into  a  tight  circle 
and  the  vahines  passed  the  great  string  or  screen  of  leaves 
inside  the  canoe-circle.  Then  the  engine  gasped  and  died, 
the  rudder  at  the  same  time  coming  down  with  a  crunch  on 
a  huge  hummock  of  brown  coral.  Jack  pick-a-backed  me 
ashore,  and  we  approached  a  dismayed  and  disgruntled 
gathering  on  the  beach.  There  was  not  a  fish  in  the  enclosure 
— not  one !  Where  were  the  boiling  myriads  of  fish,  big  and 
little,  that  fought  and  jumped  and  struck  and  bit  at  the 
wall  of  legs — the  fish  that  in  desperation  dashed  themselves 
up  on  dry  land ! 

We  made  a  cheerful,  if  sympathetic,  face  about  it  all, 
especially  as  we  could  see  that  Tehei  and  his  wife  felt  keenly 
the  failure  to  show  what  the  stone-fishers  could  do.  It  seems 
that  the  people  here  never  can  judge  when  a  good  catch  will 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  221 

be  made,  even  when  the  canoes  turn  out  in  force.  And  the 
bad  luck  happened  on  this  day  of  all  days. 

Bihaura  had  by  now  learned  that  her  mate  was  going  to 
sea  with  us,  and  although  she  continued  to  keep  the  pot  of 
fun  boiling,  on  the  paddle  home  to  the  yacht  she  broke  down 
and  sobbed  with  her  head  on  her  knees.  Mr.  Alacot,  a  genial 
half-caste  merchant  who  had  been  in  the  party,  interpreted 
to  us  that  she  was  also  sorrowing  because  Jack  and  I  were 
leaving,  and  that  we  had  been  "so  good  to  her."  We  asked 
him  to  tell  her  that  no  one  in  the  world  had  ever  been  so 
good  to  us  as  she  and  Tehei,  and  that  if  the  yacht  were  only 
larger  we  should  take  her  also.  Once  back  on  the  Snark, 
with  the  girls  sitting  around  the  after  skylight  singing  cho- 
ruses for  the  improvisateur,  she  became  more  like  her  usual 
controlled  self.  But  she  clung  close  to  Jack  and  me,  and 
watched  her  husband  as  he  danced  and  sang  and  tried  to  in- 
terpret to  us  the  impromptu  songs  and  speeches.  Neverthe- 
less, we  caught  him  wiping  his  eyes  now  and  again. 

Long  ago  in  Polynesia  there  was  an  organisation  called 
the  Aeroi  Society,  that  lived  by  its  talents  for  entertaining ; 
a  sort  of  peripatetic  Bohemian  Club,  going  about  from  dis- 
trict to  district  visiting  the  chiefs,  with  whom  presents  were 
exchanged.  The  chiefs  in  turn  descended  upon  the  common 
people  and  farmers,  robbing  them  of  their  produce  in  order 
to  feed  genius.  Besides  artistic  ability  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other, one  of  the  qualifications  for  membership  in  this  pro- 
fligate association  was  the  solemn  promise  of  a  man  to  kill  his 
offspring  at  birth.  One  of  our  steersmen,  a  well  built, 
slender  fellow,  handsome  of  face  and  winning  of  manner, 
certainly  was  the  result  of  a  slip-up  in  this  cheerful  custom 
by  some  talented  member  of  the  ancient  fraternity,  for  the 
scene  aboard  the  Snark  was  much  as  the  chronicles  describe 
the  milder  phases  of  the  Aeroi  orgies. 

Any  one  who  wants  to  fit  himself  for  unembarrassed  pub- 
lic appearance,  should  come  to  Bora-Bora  and  sit  under  one 
of  these  improvisateurs.  An  you  can  take  what  he  gives 


222  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

you  without  feeling  silly  and  looking  worse,  your  reputation 
will  be  made.  I  could  not.  The  graceful  creature  (by  the 
way,  he  had  fee-fee!)  would  approach,  making  up  the  most 
poetic  sounding  runes  and  things  with  endless  and  varied 
repetitions  of  my  adoptive  name,  "Bihaura  Vahine,"  the 
chorus  meantime  shouting  enthusiastic  responses,  my  brown 
sister  bowing  grave  acquiescence  to  the  honour  paid  me 
through  her,  and  Tehei  assuring  me  by  expressive  maitais 
aside  that  this  man  was  a  prince  of  poets — '  *  Fine !  Fine ! ' ' 
Oh,  the  genuflections,  the  spreading  of  arms,  the  waving  of 
shapely  hands,  the  sparkling  eyes !  And  all  the  while,  little 
individual  hulas  were  palpitating  around  the  ring  of  sitting 
singers.  These  love-dancing  people  do  not  have  to  stand  on 
their  feet  to  dance. 

"Wada,  instead  of  worrying  about  so  many  to  feed,  thought 
it  all  very  jolly  and  funny,  and  bustled  about  in  his  light- 
footed  neat  way,  hoisting  ship's  biscuit  on  deck,  opening 
coveted  tins  of  salmon  for  the  eager  inrush,  and  boiling  huge 
pots  of  rice. 

After  a  while,  Jack  and  I  withdrew  forward,  the  better  to 
orient  ourselves  and  observe  this  strange  act  in  the  Snark's 
drama,  performed  under  a  swinging  ship's  lantern  while 
the  boat  rocked  at  anchor  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  Even 
now,  so  soon  afterward,  it  seems  far  away  and  unreal,  and 
wholly  sweet  and  wonderful  and  unspoiled. 


Bora-Bora  to  Samoa, 
Thursday,  April  23,  1908. 

One  year  ago  to-day  we  beat  our  way  out  through  the 
swirls  of  the  Golden  Gate.  One  minute  it  seems  a  very  short 
year,  when  one  thinks  of  the  rush  of  events;  and  the  next 
minute,  pausing  on  some  of  these  events  the  twelve  months 
lengthen  into  years  crammed  with  novel  experience.  I  know 
more  about  geography  than  I  did  a  year  ago,  to  say  nothing 
of  human  nature. 

And  we're  getting  on,  we're  getting  on,  even  if  slowly. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  223 

We  could  not  keep  up  the  six-mile  gait  struck  the  first  and 
second  days  out  from  Bora-Bora,  and  since  then  have  been 
lucky  when  we  could  exceed  forty  miles  a  day.  Winds  are 
light  and  variable,  with  a  criss-cross  sea  that  makes  an  all- 
night  sleep  a  pleasant  memory  only.  We  expected  to  sight 
Manua  by  the  ninth  day,  which  will  be  to-morrow;  but  it 
now  looks  like  a  twelve-days'  run  from  Bora-Bora. 

Jack  and  I  were  both  fairly  seasick  for  a  couple  of  days, 
then  buckled  down  to  work.  We  feel  very  luxurious  with 
our  unwonted  deck  room — the  boats  are  on  davits  now — and 
a  good-sized  awning  amidships.  One  of  our  cots  is  left  on 
deck  in  the  morning,  and  we  work  and  read,  play  cards  and 
nap,  as  comfortably  as  if  we  were  in  a  house.  The  men 
follow  the  sun  around  with  a  flap  of  canvas,  and  we  are  in 
cool  shadow  all  day.  Squalls  of  rain  curtain  the  horizon, 
but  none  comes  nigh  us.  All  three  meals  are  served  on  deck 
on  the  'midship  skylight,  and  I  do  not  even  trouble  to  sit 
up,  preferring  to  rest  against  big  blue  denim  cushions  filled 
with  silk-cotton  from  Bihaura's  enormous  pillow.  Tehei  is 
quite  satisfied  with  this  disposition  of  his  wife's  gift.  He  is 
beginning  to  cheer  up,  although  when  Martin  developed  the 
pictures  of  the  double-canoe,  showing  Tehei  and  Bihaura 
dancing,  he  leaned  against  the  companionway  and  wept  like 
a  good  fellow.  Every  night  at  sunset,  he  kneels  reverently 
at  the  stern  rail  and  prays  toward  the  East.  He  is  a  good 
sailor — keen,  willing,  with  sharp  eye  for  disorder,  and  a  good 
hand  at  the  wheel.  Little  experience  as  he  has  known  in 
white  men's  boats,  he  is  a  far  better  sailor  than  poor  Ernest, 
whose  three  years  before  the  mast  have  left  him  innocent  of 
efficient  seamanship.  Along  with  his  uselessness,  he  has 
a  decided  penchant  for  " bossing"  everything  and  every- 
body whom  he  imagines  under  him — Wada  and  Nakata  for 
instance.  And,  last  and  worst,  he  has  an  unpleasant  and 
dangerous  disease,  which  Jack  is  doctoring  and  which,  on 
so  small  a  boat,  is  very  undesirable  for  all  of  us.  We  look 
forward  to  dropping  him  at  the  first  available  port. 

Our   supply   of   fresh    food   is   dwindling   to   the   noble 


224  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

yam.  I  enjoy  it  three  times  a  day,  in  the  variant  forms  that 
suggest  themselves  to  Wada's  fantastic  Japanese  brain. 
Why,  to-day  we  thought  we  had  French-fried  potatoes — 
and  behold  the  hearty  yam,  done  to  a  nicety  in  olive  oil. 
Big  ships  whitewash  their  yams,  which  keep  for  months  this 
way.  We  have  not  been  able  to  dispose  of  all  the  bananas, 
and  they  are  dropping  overboard  with  reckless  wastage. 
The  hens  have  delivered  only  two  eggs  altogether,  so  chicken 
stew  and  fricassee  are  frequent. 

Never  did  the  Snark  look  so  well,  nor  promise  to  look  bet- 
ter. The  men  are  working  hard,  painting  and  cleaning  and 
polishing.  Jack  has  them  knock  off  at  4 :30,  and  the  watches 
are  easy  in  this  uneventful  weather.  In  fact,  Martin,  taking 
the  wheel  from  eight  to  ten,  has  all  night  in.  The  engine 
room  is  unbelievably  clean,  and  the  engine  is  painted  dark 
green  and  light  brown,  with  shining  brass  to  top  off. 

Wada's  department  has  spread  to  quite  a  farmyard,  al- 
though the  feathered  stock  is  diminishing  by  two  a  day. 
Two  fine  young  roosters  committed  suicide  by  flying  over- 
board, but  the  rest  contented  themselves  with  merely 
trying  out  their  wings  and  returning  to  the  rail.  The  land- 
lubber Growings  at  daylight  are  very  confusing  to  the  dream- 
dull  mind.  One's  opening  eye  expects  to  see  the  "glimmer- 
ing square"  of  a  house-window.  And  the  pig,  the  little, 
little  puaa.  He  slipped  his  moorings  under  cover  of  dark- 
ness, and  we  have  since  speculated  as  to  whether  he  met  his 
untimely  end  at  the  business  end  of  a  shark,  or  cut  his  own 
throat  with  his  cloven  hoofs. 

Jack  and  I  have  been  boxing  daily,  as  of  old,  and  now, 
with  our  enlarged  deck  space,  Martin  has  taken  it  up  with 
Jack,  who  gets  more  exercise  than  when  he  " fights"  solely 
with  me.  The  boxing  amuses  Tehei  inordinately. 

Outside  of  the  dawns  and  sunsets,  and  Jack's  indignation 
over  my  impertinent  suggestion  from  below  that  my  venti- 
lator was  not  a  deck  ash-tray,  the  only  other  special  inci- 
dent I  can  think  of  is  the  bleaching,  or  attempt  at  bleaching 
Nakata's  hair.  I  brought  a  generous  bottle  of  peroxide  from 


Papa  Williams 


Village  Beau,   Samoa 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  225 

San  Francisco,  at  his  request;  but  Nakata's  enthusiasm  to 
become  a  blond  had  not  augmented  during  our  absence. 
However,  when  we  now  explained  that  the  black  would  grow 
out  again  soon,  he  fell  into  the  plan  with  zest.  He  was  only 
afraid  he  would  meet  Japanese  in  port  somewhere  who 
might  laugh  at  him.  But  the  bleaching  of  his  wiry,  purple- 
inky  poll  is  not  easy.  We  have  used  nearly  all  the  bottle, 
the  captain  and  I,  and  can  only  detect  a  dull  auburn  tone 
when  Nakata  stands  between  us  and  the  sun.  In  passing, 
I  must  mention  that  we  have  discovered  that  Nakata's  first 
name,  Yoshimatsu,  means  "  always  happy, "  and  Wada's, 
Tsunekichi,  "always  good." 

Jack  spotted  a  bonita  to-day,  but  failed  to  supply  Wada 
with  fresh  fish.  Even  Tehei's  beautiful  feather-lure, 
plucked  from  the  dejected  tail  of  a  doomed  rooster,  did  not 
look  good  to  the  bonita. 

Two  new  articles  have  kept  Jack  occupied,  one  called  ' '  The 
High  Seat  of  Abundance, "  relating  our  experiences  with 
Tehei  and  Bihaura,  and  the  other  "The  Stone-Fishing  of 
Bora-Bora."  In  Polynesian  Researches,  he  had  found  the 
following : 

"On  the  arrival  of  strangers,  every  man  endeavoured  to 
obtain  one  as  a  friend  and  carry  him  off  to  his  own  habita- 
tion, where  he  is  treated  with  the  greatest  kindness  by  the 
inhabitants  of  the  district;  they  place  him  on  a  high  seat 
and  feed  him  with  abundance  of  the  finest  food. ' ' 


Aboard  the  Snark,  at  anchor  off  Tau, 
Manua  Group,  American  Samoa, 

May  28,  1908. 

I  am  sitting  on  a  little  camp-stool  that  sways  threateningly 
at  each  offshore  heave  of  the  sea.  Around  me  is  a  gather- 
ing of  Samoan  gentlemen  whose  frank  admiration  of  a  woman 
who  does  not  have  to  bleach  her  hair  to  make  it  brown,  is 
quite  overwhelming.  You  see,  these  Samoan  dandies  and 
their  fafinas  (which  is  the  vahine  of  it  here)  do  have  to 
bleach  theirs,  and  to  that  end  use  lime  made  from  coral. 


226  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Why,  when  the  big  whaleboat  came  out  to  us  just  now,  rowed 
by  these  splendid  kanakas,  we  were  all  agog  over  a  magnifi- 
cent savage  in  the  bow,  a  man  of  herculean  size,  apparently 
white-headed.  He  was  a  veritable  South  Sea  Colonies 
George  Washington.  But  it  was  only  lime,  white,  thick, 
plastered  lime  made  from  coral,  although  his  truly  grand 
lines  and  bulk  and  crawling  muscles  were  no  illusion.  Those 
who  have  taken  off  this  rigorous  bleach  are  left  with  hair  of 
various  auburn  hues  that  make  Nakata's  dull  flush  green  by 
comparison.  The  reddish  hair  lends  a  red-brown  to  their 
great  black  eyes,  and  a  warm  tawny  tone  to  their  faces.  The 
splendid  bodies  are  clad  only  in  loin  cloths,  which  partly 
conceal  a  fine  tattooing  that  covers  their  glossy  skins  like 
tight  knee  breeches.  The  upper  back  part  represents  a 
canoe,  the  two  ends  reaching  in  points  half  around  the  waist. 
A  Samoan  is  not  a  grown  man  until  he  is  thus  decorated. 
He  indubitably  must  be  a  man  then,  by  right  of  pain,  if 
nothing  else. 

Another  reason  for  admiration  in  the  regard  of  the  circle 
is  my  facility  with  this  fountain  pen,  for  I  do  not  waste  much 
time  getting  over  the  paper  when  I  am  trying  to  record  hap- 
penings on  the  spot.  When  they  first  swarmed  aboard  from 
the  whaleboat,  all  shook  hands  and  said  "Talofa,"  (remi- 
niscent of  the  Hawaiian  Aloha),  we  replying  in  kind;  and 
then  I  made  for  parts  below  and  fished  up  Turner's  Samoa, 
in  the  back  of  which  is  a  vocabulary  of  native  words.  I 
wanted  to  find  out  a  few  things  from  these  new  Americans, 
and  began  pointing  at  the  words  I  needed.  They  were  able 
to  read  the  words,  and  pronounced  them  for  me,  one  after 
another  immediately  translating  into  English — as,  "Uru — 
English,  breadfruit."  The  rogues — they  all  spoke  consider- 
able English,  and  had  not  let  on ! 

Tau  Island  was  sighted  this  morning,  but  with  light  wind 
it  was  well  into  afternoon  before  we  sailed  under  the  lee 
of  the  high  land.  The  wind  failing,  Martin  started  the  en- 
gine, which  behaved  well  until  we  were  close  to  our  precarious 
anchorage  outside  the  tremendous  breakers ;  then,  just  as  we 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  227 

most  needed  power,  something  went  wrong.  Two  boatloads 
of  natives  came  out,  and  towed  us  with  a  will  to  the  place 
they  said  was  the  best  holding  ground.  This  is  a  volcanic 
island,  rolling  up  from  the  shore  twenty-five  hundred  feet, 
densely  wooded  from  water's  edge  to  clouds.  It  is  quite 
different  from  any  of  the  islands  so  far.  There  is  no  bar- 
rier reef,  only  the  rock  reef  close  in,  and  no  safe  anchorage, 
in  a  blow,  anywhere  on  the  fourteen  miles  of  coast.  We  are 
in  the  best,  but  fearsomely  near  is  the  racing  surf,  a  veritable 
Grand  Prix  of  Neptune's  finest  horses.  Our  Carmel  never 
flaunted  more  brilliant  turquoise  and  emerald  than  do  the 
glorious  speeding  breakers  of  Tau.  We  are  so  close  that 
we  fall  into  the  hollows  they  leave  behind  as  they  pile  up 
ceaselessly  on  the  smoking  reef.  Catch  us  risking  our  boats 
in  any  of  their  indiscernible  "boat-passages."  Not  we. 
When  we  go  ashore  to  yon  palm-smothered  village,  it  will  be 
in  a  big  whale-boat  manned  by  amphibious  Samoans.  One 
of  them  just  now  posted  me  upon  local  etiquette  in  the  mat- 
ter of  compensation  for  services  such  as  have  been 
rendered  us:  " A  little  sea-biscuit  for  the  boys ?  They  pull 
boat  hard.  Ai?"  So  Wada  is  handing  up  a  tin  box  of  pilot 
bread  from  the  forepeak,  while  the  square  white  teeth  of  the 
expectant,  smiling  natives  encircle  us.  "Some  whiskey, 
please?"  Oh,  that  is  different.  Whiskey  is  taboo.  They 
know,  and  so  do  we.  That  is  one  point  of  perfect  under- 
standing. 

Wednesday,  April  29,  1908. 

We  did  not  go  ashore,  as  it  was  nearly  supper  time  when 
we  came  to  anchor.  For  convenience  in  running  back  and 
forth,  we  should  like  an  airship.  Our  visitors  departed  well 
satisfied  with  their  entertainment,  and  pulled  away  singing. 
After  dark  several  boatloads  came  out  through  the  surf,  and 
passed  by  in  the  starlight,  singing,  always  singing ;  and  in  the 
night  we  awoke  and  heard  them  in  the  distance,  fishing  by 
torchlight  under  the  Southern  Cross,  while  on  the  beach 
fires  burned  redly. 


228  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

The  Snark  rolled  heavily  all  night  in  the  ground  swell, 
and  we  were  driven  below  by  a  stiff  squall ;  so  there  was  scant 
repose.  This  morning  Mr.  Morrison,  an  American  in 
charge  of  the  one  store,  came  out  in  company  with  a  two- 
hundred-and-sixty-pound  ''high  man"  of  the  village,  who 
teaches  English  in  the  school.  His  name  is  Viega,  pro- 
nounced something  like  Vee-ahng-ah — this  melodious  ahng 
sound  always  preceding  the  g  in  Samoan.  The  two  invited 
us  ashore,  so  we  swallowed  our  coffee  and  toast  and  made 
ready.  It  was  very  exciting  going  through  the  surf,  and  I 
found  myself  studying  ways  and  means  of  winning  ashore 
over  the  reef,  should  we  upset.  Many  boats  are  broken 
up,  even  in  the  hands  of  the  skilful  surf  men.  We  were 
reminded  of  surf-riding  in  Hawaii,  when  at  length  a  straight- 
going  friendly  roller  sent  us  shooting  in. 

Borne  on  the  mighty  shoulders  of  the  tattooed,  red- 
headed Samoans,  we  were  set  high  and  dry  on  the  broadest, 
palm-dotted  beach  we  have  seen.  Viega  led  us  to  the 
house  of  Tuimanua,  the  King,  who,  greatly  to  our  disap- 
pointment, for  we  had  heard  much  of  him,  was  absent  super- 
intending the  copra-making  on  Olosenga,  the  westernmost 
of  the  Manuan  group.  Later  in  the  day  a  flashy-looking 
habitue  of  the  royal  neighbourhood,  elegantly  tattooed  and 
be-limed,  broached  the  suggestion  that  he  send  a  boat  to 
Olosenga  with  news  of  our  arrival.  We  were  glad  of  this, 
for  this  pseudo-monarch  is  the  last  and  most  illustrious  of 
the  kings  of  Old  Samoa,  and  we  should  regret  missing 
him. 

As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  house,  the  high  men  began  to 
drop  in,  and  we  sat  in  a  circle  and  had  translated  to  us  by 
the  gentle-voiced  and  courteous  Viega  the  speeches  of  wel- 
come made  by  the  chief  orator  of  the  village — the  Talking 
Man.  Not  one  of  the  speakers  would  have  risked  his  elo- 
quence to  his  own  scant  English.  Viega,  the  teacher,  was 
able  to  do  their  high-flown  language  into  very  good  English, 
with  admirable  grace  and  dignity.  The  Samoans  are  cere- 
monious above  all  the  Islanders.  Viega 's  effect  is  quite  over- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  229 

powering,  and  I  find  it  necessary  to  recall  my  stare  occa- 
sionally when  I  am  lost  wondering  how  he  carries  his  mas- 
sive bulk  so  well.  And  he  is  athletic — looks  fat,  but  can 
easily  touch  the  floor  with  his  knuckles  without  bending  at 
the  knees.  It  turns  out  that  he  practises  this  and  other 
exercises  daily — proving  that  he  has  brain  as  well  as  brawn. 
In  feature  he  somewhat  resembles  Prince  Cupid  of  Hawaii. 
The  profile  is  good,  mouth  well  shaped  over  even  teeth,  and 
wonderfully  sweet  when  smiling;  the  forehead  is  low  but 
broad,  and  the  eyes,  very  large,  are  dusky  black,  with  inso- 
lently level,  heavy  lids — the  insolence  being  solely  in  the 
lines,  for  the  gaze  is  kind  and  gracious.  His  eyelashes  are 
half  an  inch  long  at  least.  It  is  the  physical  aristocracy 
again,  the  splendid  result  of  generations  of  ample  nourish- 
ment and  care  and  selection.  Viega  wears  a  white  lava-lava 
(all  the  same  pareu,  I  can  hear  Wada  comment),  a  shirt  and 
a  white  coat. 

A  room  was  made  ready  for  us  papalangi  (white  folk)  in 
this  European  and  breezy  stone  house,  and  oh,  yes — I  must 
not  forget  the  'ava.  Kava,  the  Americans  say  at  home,  but 
'ava  is  the  correct  native  usage,  while  the  real  botanical  in- 
wardness is  macropiper  methysticum.  There  was  no  post- 
ponement in  our  liking  for  it,  and  there  is  now  a  note  filed 
away  to  remind  us  to  send  for  "  pepper-bush "  when  we  are 
home  once  more.  They  made  it  in  a  large  fourteen-legged 
calabash  called  tanoa,  wrought  from  one  piece  of  hard  wood. 
The  knobby  yellowish  root  is  coarsely  grated,  placed  in  the 
bowl,  and  water  added.  The  mess  is  squeezed  by  pretty 
maidens  whose  hands  are  first  punctiliously  washed — at 
least,  that  is  what  happened  while  we  were  looking  on.  As 
the  yellow  root  begins  to  tinge  the  water,  the  grosser  grat- 
ings are  strained  in  a  bunch  of  cocoanut  fibre.  When  the 
water  retains  the  proper  amount  of  the  flavour  and  colour  of 
the  root,  the  'ava  makers  all  stand  and  clap  their  hands. 
This  signifies  to  the  household  that  the  flowing  bowl  is  pre- 
pared, and  is  also  a  signal  that  the  house  is  taboo  to  intru- 
sion until  the  drinking  is  accomplished.  Originally  the 


230  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

meaning  of  this  clapping  included  the  warning  against  evil 
spirits. 

A  cocoanut  calabash  is  now  dipped  into  the  bowl  and 
brought  by  one  of  the  pretty  maidens  to  the  guest  of  honour. 
On  this  occasion  it  was  passed  first  to  me,  and  then  refilled 
for  Jack;  Mr.  Morrison  came  next,  and  was  followed  by 
Viega,  and  thence  on  around  the  ring  of  "nobles,"  undoubt- 
edly in  the  precedence  of  their  rank.  The  same  drinking- 
calabash  is  used  by  all,  going  back  to  be  replenished  after 
each  drinker,  even  if  he  has  but  touched  his  lips  to  it.  But 
the  best  observance  is  to  drain  it.  The  person  presenting 
the  cup  raises  it  high,  then  sweeps  low,  finally  bringing  it  to 
the  level  of  the  drinker's  hand.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  stately 
ceremonial. 

'Ava  drinking  is  said  to  have  been  the  most  strict  and 
ceremonious  function  of  Samoa  'Umi  in  the  past,  and  the 
pages  of  her  history  are  redly  punctuated  with  squabbles, 
feuds,  and  wars,  that  arose  over  the  question  of  precedence  in 
drinking.  There  is  no  doubt  in  our  minds  as  to  who  will 
first  press  lip  to  cup  when  Mr.  Tuimanua  comes  to  town. 

Originally,  the  'ava  was  fermented,  but  the  people  were  not 
given  to  drinking  to  excess,  only  taking  a  draught  before 
meals,  like  a  cocktail ;  and  old  men  drank  it  in  the  morning, 
believing  that  it  prolonged  life.  'Ava  is  taboo  in  Hawaii 
now,  on  account  of  the  intoxication  it  produced  among  the 
natives.  But  this  'ava  in  Manua  is  newly  made  for  each 
quaffing,  and  is  the  freshest,  most  mouth-cleansing  of  drinks, 
leaving  an  effect  on  the  tongue  like  a  gargle  of  listerine — a 
"delectable  toothwash  that  cleanses  all  the  way  down,"  ac- 
cording to  Jack.  When  my  cupful  started  down,  I  thought 
I  should  not  care  much  for  'ava ;  but  before  the  cocoanut-shell 
was  emptied,  I  changed  my  mind.  One  cannot  name  the 
flavour — that  is  as  difficult  as  describing  the  taste  of  bread- 
fruit ;  it  is  just  rooty,  and  somebody  said  it  reminded  him  of 
hops.  Perhaps  it  might  be  likened  to  a  sublimated,  unfer- 
mented,  celestial  beer.  One  writer  has  said  that  'ava  tasted 
like  soapy  dishwater  as  much  as  anything  else ;  but  we  failed 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  231 

to  notice  the  similarity — perhaps  we  don't  know  the  taste 
of  dishwater. 

Mr.  Morrison  tells  us  that  'ava  is  mildly  stimulating,  and 
that  some  persons  find  their  knees  wabbly  after  drinking  a 
quantity.  But  Jack  and  I  have  noted  no  effect  whatever, 
except  that  of  refreshment.  We  are  just  as  well  satisfied, 
too,  that  our  'ava  is  not  made  as  of  old,  when  the  root  was 
chewed  by  the  Samoan  girls.  No  matter  how  charming  they 
be,  one  cannot  help  preferring  to  do  his  own  chewing,  and, 
anyway,  microbes  are  microbes. — Oh,  surely,  we'd  have  had 
a  try  at  it,  just  the  same.  We  could  not  have  let  our  beloved 
Robert  Louis  go  us  better  on  a  little  thing  like  that. 

Although  one  consequence  of  'ava  drinking  is  to  check  the 
appetite  for  food,  it  is  customary  to  offer  food  with  the 
drink ;  but  the  ceremonial  does  not  impose  acceptance  of  the 
taro,  or  breadfruit,  or  whatever  happens  to  be  set  forth. 

The  household  of  the  King  is  unique.  Here,  besides  Tui- 
manua  and  his  wife,  live  Mr.  Morrison,  and  a  sister  of  the 
King,  whose  name,  Lepepa,  means  Good  Tidings,  such  as 
announcements  of  marriages  or  betrothals.  She  certainly 
looks  all  of  it,  and  more,  for  topping  her  spare  presence  is  a 
head  of  short  black  hair,  red-ended,  standing  out  frizzily 
in  all  directions  like  a  Fijian's,  giving  her  a  look  of 
pained  surprise  which  is  irresistibly  funny.  Lepepa 's  main 
occupation,  besides  being  good  to  us,  is  keeping  this  aureole 
in  order,  which  she  does  by  rolling  it  up  tight  in  a  point  on 
top  of  her  head,  pinning  it  with  two  or  three  insufficient 
wire  hairpins.  I  spared  her  one  of  my  large  bone  ones,  and 
she  promptly  came  with  a  beautiful  tapa  (siapo,  here)  of 
her  own  manufacture.  It  is  done  in  dark  brown  designs 
on  dull  white,  and  decorated  with  big  bars  and  disks  painted 
with  a  varnish-like  vegetable  juice.  This  square  siapo  is  for 
wearing  apparel,  held  in  place  by  a  broad  white  siapo  girdle, 
picked  out  in  brown  leaf-forms. 

There  are  several  young  girls,  related  to  the  royal  family, 
who  sleep  elsewhere  but  spend  the  day  in  the  "palace," 
ostensibly  helping  around.  Two  beauties  stood  fanning  us 


232  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

at  table  to-day.  One,  vouched  for  as  full-blooded  Manuan, 
is  a  variation  in  her  race.  Her  hair  is  brown,  half  its  length 
burned  by  the  sun  to  a  splendid  lustreless  gold.  Her  skin  is 
tawny,  and  her  black  eyes,  long  and  level,  heavy -lidded  and 
indolent,  borrow  a  tawny  tone  from  hair  and  skin.  She  has 
a  square-cut  neck  on  her  short  tunic  of  bright  blue-flowered 
stuff,  and  her  neck  and  shoulders  and  back  are  matchless  in 
line  and  texture.  Indeed,  she  is  so  lovely  a  thing  that  she 
seems  fairly  to  breathe  out  beauty.  Only  thirteen  she  is, 
with  an  exquisite  budding  body ;  and  she  lays  her  dull  gold 
hair  on  the  nape  of  her  neck,  dressing  it  over  the  ears  with 
crimson  blossoms  of  hibiscus,  and  looks  upon  us  with  a 
calm  sphinx-like  gaze  that  tells  nothing  except  that  she  is 
unconsciously  a  perfect  thing  fashioned  from  the  dreams  and 
colours  that  pictures  are  made  of.  I  wonder  if  Cleopatra 
looked  so,  when  she  was  thirteen.  This  beauty's  name  is 
Liuga,  with  the  tender  n  before  the  soft  g.  And  Liuga 
means  The  End,  The  Aim.  Isn't  that  beautiful ?— What 
does  she  here  in  unappreciative  Samoa-land,  where  her  fair- 
ness is  but  subject  for  mirth  among  her  kind?  She  would 
be  The  End,  The  Aim,  of  many  a  white  heart  if  she  went  to 
a  white  man's  country,  and  possessed  the  mind  to  inform 
her  loveliness. 

There  is  a  fashion  magazine  in  Tau.  I  saw  it  lying  on  the 
Queen's  sewing  machine.  And  if  I  had  not  seen  it,  I  should 
have  known  it  was  in  the  village.  The  strange  garments 
that  have  been  evolved  would  make  a  book  in  themselves. 
There  is  great  preference  for  semi-decollete  and  berthas; 
and  as  this  pinafore  sort  of  apparel  seldom  goes  as  far  as 
the  knees,  a  lava-lava  of  some  unrelated  material  covers  from 
the  hips  down.  Liuga  finished  off  the  square  neck  of  her 
blue-flowered  upper  garment  with  wide  purple  lace  laid  flat, 
while  her  lava-lava  is  brilliant  rose-colour.  She  is  like  an 
Egyptian  scarf,  a  rainbow.  There — I  am  back  to  her  again, 
when  I  want  to  tell  about  Viega's  wife,  Sialafua,  which 
means  The  Road,  The  "Way.  She  helped  in  the  hospitality 
this  afternoon;  a  magnificent  woman,  well  up  to  her  hus- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  233 

band's  weight.  I  should  like  to  see  her  in  a  box  at  the 
opera,  in  full  panoply  of  silk  and  jewels  and  bare  shoulders. 
She  would  create  a  sensation,  would  Viega's  wife.  As  it 
is,  she  makes  a  marked  impression  in  a  lavender  and  white 
ofu  (Samoan  for  holoku,  ahu,  etc.),  her  black  hair  done 
high,  and  plump  taper  hands  folded  in  a  lap  that  "ample" 
doesn't  express.  She  is  the  daughter  of  an  old  chief  of 
Upolu,  and  looks  born  to  the  purple. 

When  Mr.  Morrison  had  enticed  Jack  out  to  the  store,  the 
women  and  girls  lost  no  time  surrounding  me,  and  asking, 
in  unmistakable  and  highly  ludicrous  ways,  if  I  had  any 
"pickaninnies,"  which  familiar  word  they  have  adopted. 
When  I  made  it  clear  that  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have 
no  family,  the  good  souls  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  their  pity 
for  my  childlessness.  But  after  some  one  pantomimed  the 
size  of  the  Snark,  and  the  perils  that  would  beset  pickanin- 
nies on  that  overcrowded  vaa  (boat),  they  sagely  nodded 
that  it  was  best  so,  and  wished  me  well  for  the  time  when 
my  little  ship  should  come  home. 


Thursday,  April  30,  1908. 

At  last  we  have  seen  tapa-cloth  in  the  making.  I  had 
begun  to  look  upon  it  as  a  lost  art,  until  Jack  and  I,  taking 
a  walk,  stumbled  upon  a  fale  (house)  where  a  pretty  woman 
sat  cross-legged  before  a  tilted  board,  pounding  and  scrap- 
ing the  wet  lengths  of  stripped  white  tutuga  bark — a  kind 
of  mulberry — Branssonetia  sapyrifera,  if  you  really  want  to 
know.  After  the  pulpy  substance  thus  made  is  pounded 
into  "cloth,"  it  is  laid  over  a  board  carved  in  one  of  the 
patterns  peculiar  to  siapos.  A  piece  of  rag  is  then  dipped 
into  native  dye  made  from  tree-bark,  and  well  rubbed  over 
the  cloth.  The  colour  remains  on  the  high  places  pressed 
up  by  the  carving,  and  the  thing  is  done.  The  woman  dis- 
coursed volubly  to  us  about  the  process,  and  we,  nothing 
daunted,  replied  at  length  in  our  own,  to  her,  unintelligible 
jargon. 


234  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

The  village  strays  picturesquely  along  the  beach,  each 
f ale  set  up  wherever  its  owner  chooses,  and  his  shell-garnished 
canoe  drawn  up  not  far  off.  There  are  two  roads  in  Tau 
running  parallel  until  they  converge  at  the  ends  of  the  vil- 
lage. Trees  and  flowers  crowd  to  the  edges,  and  we  saw 
passing  through  the  air  from  bough  to  bough  several  of  those 
strange  furry  paradoxes,  flying  foxes.  The  houses  are  beau- 
tiful— far  superior  to  those  of  Tahiti  and  Tahaa,  especially 
inside.  The  roofs  are  domed  much  higher,  and  are  more 
often  round  than  oblong,  while  the  workmanship  in  beams  and 
thatch  and  sennit  is  exquisite.  Samoan  thatch  is  almost  al- 
ways made  from  sugar  cane,  and  the  eaves  of  the  steep 
roofs  clipped  short.  The  floors  are  the  ground,  raised  sev- 
eral inches  by  layers  of  pounded  white  coral,  with  stones 
set  around  the  edge  to  keep  the  coral  in  place.  One 
stoops  low  to  enter,  passing  in  between  the  upright  pillars. 
The  interiors  are  lofty  and  roomy  and  cool,  with  a  restful 
gloom ;  and  when  rain  or  draft  is  to  be  shut  out,  mats  rolled 
up  under  the  eaves  are  let  down,  a  section  at  a  time,  or  all 
around,  as  the  need  may  be.  The  only  furnishings  are 
handsome  calabashes  lacquered  bluish  white  by  the  'ava, 
rolls  of  sleeping  mats,  and  short  bamboos  raised  a  few 
inches,  which  are  used  as  pillows,  Japanese  fashion. 

Upon  going  into  a  house,  with  "Talofa"  all  round,  mats 
are  instantly  unrolled,  upon  which  one  is  invited  to  sit — 
cross-legged  of  course.  And  the  most  approved  posture, 
especially  when  in  presence  of  royalty,  is  with  the  right  foot 
resting  upon  the  left  leg,  well  above  the  knee.  Try  it.  Jack 
says  he  cannot  succeed  because  of  his  stiff  knees — stiff  from 
many  accidents;  so  I  am  doing  it  for  the  family,  although 
I  must  admit  it  is  a  strain. 

These  Manuans  are  universally  good-looking,  except  for 
the  prevalent  disfiguring  blindness.  No  one  seems  to  be 
sure  of  the  cause.  But  judging  by  the  myriads  of  small, 
clinging,  sticky  flies  that  infest  the  faces  of  the  children,  one 
cannot  help  wondering  if  they  haven't  something  to  do  with 
it.  Some  of  the  prettiest  faces  are  grievously  marred  by  an 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  235 

eye  gone  white  or  whitish  blue.  Hunchbacks  of  both  sexes 
are  a  common  sight,  but  they  are  as  jolly  as  the  rest.  We 
noticed  a  number  of  men  without  hands — dynamiting  fish 
being  responsible.  There  is  fee-fee,  but  no  leprosy.  It  is  a 
pity  there  is  not  more  fresh  water  in  Manua.  Rainwater  is 
the  source  of  supply,  and  the  natives  have  no  chance  to  bathe 
in  rivers  as  all  the  islanders  love  to  do;  and  there  can  be 
little  sea-bathing,  on  account  of  sharks.  They  are  not  volun- ' 
tarily  uncleanly;  they  do  the  best  they  can,  but  lack  the 
fresh  and  shining  appearance  of  people  who  may  revel  in 
abundance  of  water. 

We  cannot  stir  out  of  the  house  but  a  large  following  of 
all  ages  and  conditions  attaches  to  our  rear.  To-day  one  lusty 
young  fellow  took  it  upon  himself  to  be  guide.  He  speaks 
English,  and  says  he  was  once  a  marine  on  the  Adams.  He 
led  us  into  various  houses,  where  we  bought  siapos  and  fans, 
shells  and  baskets.  When  some  avaricious  fafine  wanted  a 
price  that  our  guide  considered  exorbitant,  he  assumed  a 
lofty,  detached  expression  and  remarked:  "Let  uss  go." 
And  go  we  would,  on  to  another  fale  where  perhaps  a  couple 
of  voluptuous  damsels  volunteered  to  siva-siva,  first  placing  a 
dish  before  us,  into  which  Jack  was  expected  to  drop  small 
change.  These  Manuans,  despite  the  fact  that  this  is  not  a 
steamer  port,  are  not  so  primitive  by  far  as  our  adorable 
Bora-Borans. 

The  children  have  learned  that  certain  purplish-red  cat- 
eyes,  although  common  as  pebbles  here,  are  for  some  reason 
esteemed  by  me ;  and  they  come  in  droves,  hands  full.  Jack 
pays  them  a  cent  for  ten  desirable  specimens,  and  they  scuttle 
for  the  store  to  spend  their  gains  in  ' '  lollies. ' '  When  we  re- 
ject bad  stones  that  they  try  to  foist  upon  us,  there  is  a 
great  uproar  of  laughter,  in  which  the  detected  one  joins 
with  good  will.  I  am  minded  to  plan  a  girdle  out  of  the 
cat-eyes.  One  green  one  has  come  to  light,  but  such  are 
rare. 

We  were  gone  possibly  an  hour  and  a  half  on  our  quest 
through  the  village,  and  when  we  returned,  ten  of  our 


236  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

coppers  had  already  found  their  way  back  to  the  store,  where 
Mr.  Morrison  was  dispensing  lollies  at  eight  for  a  cent.  It 
seems  good  to  be  handling  American  coinage.  It  provokes 
the  old  query :  ' '  Do  you  know  where  you  are  ? ' '  Frankly, 
half  the  time  I  do  not.  Down  on  the  broad  glistening  beach 
I  sit  with  chin  on  knees  and  watch  the  bit  Snark  tossing  just 
beyond  the  tremendous  barrier  of  surf,  and  feel  very  much 
lost  indeed. 

The  King's  front  veranda  was  the  scene  of  quite  an  ex- 
tensive bazaar  to-day,  when  the  natives,  rounded  up  by  Mr. 
Morrison  at  our  request,  brought  siapos  and  fans  and  mats  for 
us  to  buy.  All  were  good  natured — congratulating  one  an- 
other when  a  sale  was  made,  and  gaily  jeering  when  an 
article  was  not  up  to  the  mark.  Mr.  Morrison,  who  is  the 
butt  of  much  friendly  abuse  because  he  will  not  take  a  wife 
from  among  them,  engineered  proceedings,  and  kept  prices 
down  to  normal;  and  we  became  the  possessors  of  enough 
mats,  fine  and  coarse,  to  furnish  our  floors  in  summer  at 
home,  and  to  sleep  on  for  aye  if  we  choose.  A  large  mat  of 
fine,  soft  weave  can  be  bought  for  $2.00  to  the  entire  con- 
tent of  the  seller.  Lovely  sleeping-mats,  child-length,  come 
two  for  a  quarter,  while  an  ordinary-sized  siapo  that  would 
take  three  women  a  week  to  make,  brings  half  a  dollar  or 
less.  'Ava  bowls  are  held  very  high,  because  few  are  made 
in  this  day. 

When  I  lay  down  to  rest  after  dinner,  in  to  me  came  Soa, 
one-time  taupou,  or  Maid  of  the  Village,  now  a  sober  young 
matron  of  a  few  months.  She  sat  beside  me  on  the  bed  and 
began  to  massage — lomi-lomi,  the  same  as  in  Hawaii.  Then 
Lepepa  dropped  in,  with  half  her  unruly  hair  sticking 
straight  out  on  one  side,  and  added  her  kneading.  After 
a  time  another  girl  strayed  along  and  joined,  while  outside 
on  the  porch  Liuga,  head  nodding  with  red  flowers,  looked 
through  the  window  and  wound  up  a  musical  clock  for  our 
amusement. 

I  must  tell  about  the  Maids  of  the  Villages.  I  do  not  know 
who  is  taupou  of  this  one,  now  Soa  is  wedded;  but  it  is  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  237 

custom  for  the  chief  of  a  village  to  appoint  a  child  to  the 
high  office,  which  child  is  brought  up  carefully  with  this 
goal  in  view.  She  must  be  a  virgin  of  high  degree,  and  she 
is  the  standard,  the  representative,  the  paragon,  of  all  pure 
excellence  in  the  community.  If  she  fail  in  virtue,  the  chief 
who  appointed  her  must  indeed  be  powerful  to  save  her  from 
punishment  if  he  would.  Her  function  it  is  to  entertain  high 
guests — to  make  the  'ava,  to  be  gracious,  and  to  look  all  her 
loveliness,  dressed  for  the  part. 

Now,  also  in  each  village  is  the  manaia,  the  beau,  the 
flash-man  in  whom  is  embodied  all  the  foppery  and  manly 
style  of  his  people.  Part  of  the  business  of  this  masculine 
butterfly  is  the  conquest  of  taupous  of  other  villages  than  his 
own — his  guerdon  being  the  number  of  maids  he  may  win. 
Courting-parties  besiege  each  village  in  this  game  of  hearts, 
and  each  group  must  look  to  it  that  its  taupou  be  shielded 
from  the  charms  of  the  intruder.  Her  end  is  to  marry  a 
chief  who  will  be  chosen  for  her,  and  there  must  be  no  trip- 
ping aside.  There  are  all  sorts  of  intricate  ins  and  outs  in 
the  taupou  system,  and  one  would  have  to  reside  in  Samoa 
a  long  time  to  unravel  the  inwardness  of  the  charming  cus- 
tom. 

After  supper,  still  tired,  I  stretched  out  on  a  mat  on  the 
veranda,  where  young  girls  gathered  around,  who,  I  have 
no  doubt,  commented  upon  the  cut  of  my  ofu.  I  said  "Lomi 
lomi,"  and  was  promptly  surrounded,  three  on  a  side,  twelve 
small  hands  hunting  out  the  tired  places  in  my  nerves. 
Even  the  indolent  Liuga  took  a  hand,  two  hands,  as  well  as 
the  other  belle  who  fans  us  at  table. 

Boys  from  Viega's  school  drifted  over  to  sing  for  us,  and 
sat  in  a  row  on  the  grass  under  a  big  fan  tree.  Their 
himines  are  less  varied  in  harmony  than  those  of  Bora-Bora, 
but  very  musical  nevertheless. 

Friday,  May  1,  1908. 

He  came,  Tuimanua,  in  a  pouring  rain.  Early  in  the 
morning  the  word  was  passed  along  that  he  had  landed ;  but 


238  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

it  was  some  little  time  before  we  saw  him,  for  he  beached  at 
a  distance  in  order  to  dress  suitably.  When  he  finally  ap- 
peared, he  walked  under  an  umbrella,  barefoot  in  the  rain, 
clad  in  neat  brass-buttoned  khaki  coat,  over  a  white  lava- 
lava.  His  wife  followed,  with  Sialafua,  and  we  were  in- 
troduced by  Viega.  Then  ensued  a  ceremonial  period,  dur- 
ing which  we  sat  around  in  the  main  hall  and  exchanged 
compliments  and  courtesies.  As  for  Tuimanua's  Queen, 
Vaitupu,  she  is  just  the  dearest  of  solid,  lovable,  wholesome 
women,  with  dignity  and  fine  manners.  So  has  her  hus- 
band dignity  and  grace,  but  something  more.  We  had  been 
with  him  but  a  few  minutes  when  we  said  to  each  other: 
"He  is  every  inch  the  part."  He  is  tall,  well  shaped,  with 
sharp  and  restless  black  eyes,  fairly  light  skin,  noble  profile 
and  head,  firm  mouth,  slender  sensitive  hands,  and  the  first 
fine  feet  we  have  seen  in  Polynesia — long,  slim,  classic,  even 
to  the  long  second  toe.  His  carriage  is  kingly,  aloof,  lonely. 

We  had  understood  at  Tahiti  that  Tuimanua  spoke  a  little 
English ;  but  no  word  did  he  utter  to  us  except  in  Samoan, 
which  Viega  interpreted.  Once  or  thrice,  a  quick  lift  of 
the  Tui's  eyebrows  or  a  flash  of  his  keen  eyes,  made  me 
wonder  how  much  he  really  did  understand. 

Jack  and  I  were  getting  quite  at  home  in  our  surroundings, 
when  Tuimanua  made  some  request  of  Viega.  That  engag- 
ing creature  rose  to  do  his  bidding,  but  passed  out  of  the 
room  backward  and  bent  double — and  he  a  kinsman,  a  nephew 
of  the  august  Tui.  We  kept  our  eyes  alert,  and  when 
clapping  announced  the  'ava,  we  saw  Liuga  approach  deeply 
bent.  I  do  not  think  the  fair  maiden  likes  genuflecting,  or 
else  she  has  been  growing  careless  in  the  absence  of  her 
sovereign,  for  later  in  the  day  she  failed  somewhere  and 
earned  a  reprimand  from  him  that  sent  her  backing  out  of 
the  room  as  fast  as  she  could  progress  in  that  fashion. 

We  had  been  curious  as  to  how  this  round  of  'ava  would 
be  served.  Tuimanua  indicated  Jack  to  the  hesitating  cup 
bearer,  and  Jack  was  obliged  to  drink  first,  although  he  tried 
to  offer  the  calabash  to  the  Queen.  But  Tuimanua 's  imperi- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  239 

ous  drawing  together  of  his  black  brows  suggested  that  the 
best  way  was  to  comply  with  his  wish.  I  came  next  to  the 
head  of  my  family,  then  Mr.  Morrison,  the  King,  his  wife, 
and  so  on. 

The  formal  audience  shortly  broke  up,  and  Mr.  Morrison 
took  us  to  see  Mr.  Young  and  his  daughter,  who  had  just  ar- 
rived in  their  schooner  from  Tutuila.  The  girl  we  found 
very  sweet  and  modest,  and  her  father  exceedingly  interest- 
ing, full  of  travel  and  experience.  By  marriage  he  is  con- 
nected with  the  Manuan  chief  blood,  and  a  few  years  ago  dur- 
ing some  lull  in  succession  of  rulers  on  Tau,  he  set  his  elder 
daughter  on  the  high  seat.  She  subsequently  died,  and  her 
tomb,  a  modern  one,  is  just  outside  the  house.  Tuimanua 
was  next  on  the  throne,  and  there  is  no  love  lost  between  him 
and  the  Youngs.  However,  neither  mentioned  the  other  to 
us;  and  when,  upon  our  return  to  dinner,  Mr.  Morrison 
casually  mentioned  that  he  had  taken  us  to  call  \jpon  Rosa 
Young  and  her  father,  the  intelligence  was  received  by  a 
well-bred  inclination  of  the  royal  heads. 

There  is  a  vast  difference  in  the  way  things  are  conducted 
since  the  Tui  and  Vaitupu  returned.  Law  and  order  prevail 
in  right  regal  fashion,  and  the  women  stand  around 
promptly.  Tuimanua 's  quick,  roving  eye  detects  the  slight- 
est remissness  in  table  service — which  he  has  learned  in  the 
navy  circle  at  Tutuila — and  he  makes  his  corrections  with  a 
quiet  unobtrusiveness  that  would  bear  emulation  in  many  a 
paler  menage. 

After  the  noon  meal,  Vaitupu  took  us  by  the  hands  and 
led  us  into  her  and  her  husband's  room,  where  we  found  a 
transformation  had  been  wrought.  The  dismantled  black 
and  gilt  four-poster  was  made  up  snowily,  fresh  mats  laid 
on  the  floor,  a  reading-stand  ready  by  the  bed,  bearing  a 
good  lamp,  and  upon  the  floor  a  heap  of  Samoan  treasures, 
all  for  us — siapos,  mats  and  fans ;  while  from  her  own  finger 
the  Queen  took  three  turtle-shell  rings,  inlaid  with  silver, 
and  placed  them  on  my  fingers.  Around  my  neck  she  hung  a 
long  thick  necklace  of  beautiful  diminutive  land-shells.  But 


240  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  cream  of  the  pile  at  our  feet  was  a  loose  low-necked  shirt, 
made  for  the  use  of  the  taupou  on  state  occasions,  plaited  of 
sennit  so  fine  that  the  woof  is  like  soft  cloth,  or  doeskin.  This 
is  a  valuable  souvenir,  being  an  old  specimen,  finer  than  any 
of  the  work  done  in  this  day.  It  is  trimmed  about  the  neck 
with  a  sort  of  fringe  of  white  bark-fibre,  fine  and  smooth  as 
silk  ribbon,  and  interspersed  with  small  fluffy  red  feathers 
of  a  rare  bird.  I  could  not  express  my  delight,  and  Jack 
looked  positively  bashful.  It  really  is  embarrassing  to  have 
heaped  upon  one  such  redundant  piles  of  presents.  Perhaps 
we  shall  get  used  to  the  marvel  of  Samoan  commonplace — 
although  customs  may  be  different  beyond  Samoa,  and  the 
novelty  remain  untarnished  after  all. 

An  elaborate  siva-siva,  combined  singing  and  sitting-danc- 
ing, was  rendered  outside  after  supper,  and  later,  as  we  sat 
fanning  in  the  twilight,  Jack  and  Mr.  Morrison  swapping 
yarns,  and  Vaitupu  caressing  my  hands  in  her  large,  affec- 
tionate way,  Tuimanua  arose  and  went  in.  In  a  few  moments 
a  girl  came  with  a  message  to  Mr.  Morrison,  which  was  trans- 
lated as  a  request  that  we  step  inside  for  evening  devotions. 
We  found  the  King  seated  at  the  large  table,  his  head  on  his 
hand.  There  was  something  pathetic  about  him,  for  Tui- 
manua has  a  bad  illness  of  the  stomach,  for  which  he  has 
been  to  the  hospital  at  Tutuila.  We  are  told  that  he  thinks 
he  has  an  aitu  pursuing  him — a  malign  spirit  bent  upon  his 
undoing ;  and  from  the  way  he  looks  about  him  at  times,  it 
is  probable  that  the  devil  will  get  him,  if  fear  will  kill. 
This  evil  presence,  like  the  kahuna  of  old  Hawaii,  is  a  dog- 
ger of  men's  footsteps  in  Samoa,  and  even  Tuimanua,  who 
is  more  intelligent  and  enlightened  than  any  of  the  remain- 
ing chiefs,  does  not  escape  the  stunting,  damning  supersti- 
tion, despite  his  strict  devotion  to  the  Christian  faith.  It  is 
even  said  he  hesitated  a  year  or  two  before  he  would  accept 
the  chiefdom  of  Manua,  waiting  for  the  people  to  give  up 
certain  barbarous  customs.  But  it  is  no  use.  His  aitu  is 
stronger  than  his  faith. 

Viega  offered  up  a  long  prayer  in  his  musical  voice  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  241 

language,  at  the  end  of  which  all  joined  in  repeating  the 
Lord's  Prayer  in  the  native  tongue.  It  was  a  picture  to  re- 
member— the  stricken  quasi  king  bowed  upon  his  hands,  the 
nephew  of  mighty  sinew  praying  like  a  trusting  child,  the 
sumptuous  women  filling  their  inadequate  chairs  in  over- 
flowing lines  of  ease,  and,  off  in  a  corner,  sitting  on  our  now 
new  'ava  calabashes,  a  cluster  of  young  beauties,  gorgeous  in 
colours  of  cloth  and  flowers — and  a  bit  inclined  to  giggle  and 
whisper. 

A  hymn  ensued,  and  then  the  Tui  indicated  to  Mr. 
Morrison  that  he  would  be  pleased  if  Jack  would  tell  him 
the  latest  news  from  America — say  concerning  the  elections, 
and  any  other  matters  to  do  with  the  Government.  In 
speaking,  the  King  addresses  the  person  to  whom  he  wishes 
his  speech  interpreted,  quite  as  naturally  as  if  he  expected 
to  be  understood.  Jack  glanced  up  at  a  portrait  of  Teddy 
Koosevelt  adorning  the  key-beam  of  an  arch,  and  racked 
his  brain  for  items  to  interest  the  royal  interlocutor.  When 
he  had  finished,  Tuimanua  went  on  to  state  some  of  his  pet 
plans  for  Manua,  one  hope  being  that  the  Government  might 
some  day  send  a  man  to  the  school  who  would  know  law,  so 
that  the  youth  of  Samoa  would  be  able  to  learn  the  newly 
imposed  American  laws,  and  clearly  explain  those  laws  to 
their  elders. 

And  so  ended  our  second  May  Day  since  the  voyage  of  the 
Snark  began. 

Aboard  the  Snark, 

Manua  to  Tutuila, 
Saturday,  May  2,  1908. 

There  they  go,  the  grave  King,  the  motherly  Queen,  Viega 
and  his  gorgeous  wife,  all  singing,  they  and  the  brown 
oarsmen : 

"I  nev-ver  will  for-ge-ett  you !" 

— the  "Farewell  to  Admiral  Kimberly"  that  has  become  fare- 
well to  every  one  in  Samoa.  Three  times  they  have  circled 
us  in  the  long  whaleboat,  singing  and  waving,  and  now 


242  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNABK 

they  grow  smaller  and  dimmer  as  the  boat  surges  with 
sweeping  strokes  toward  the  familiar  beach.  A  few  little 
out-rigger  canoes,  shell-decorated,  float  idly  about,  and 
Young 's  schooner  dips  her  flag  as  we  get  under  way  and  pass 
slowly  in  the  light  air  toward  a  fair  breeze  that  we  see 
wrinkling  the  ocean  out  from  under  the  land. 

We  did  not  want  to  go  so  soon,  but  time  and  the  season 
are  pressing.  The  only  reason  for  pressure  of  time  is  that 
there  are  hurricane  seasons  farther  on  which  cautious  Jack 
wishes  to  avoid.  You  see,  the  voyage  of  the  Snark  is  not  so 
foolhardy  as  it  might  look.  So  it's  anchor  up  and  away,  our 
light  barque  freighted  with  bales  of  curious  merchandise. 
Which  pleasant  burthen  goes  free  into  the  United  States, 
from  our  own  harbour  in  Tutuila. 

Such  a  busy  morning!  There  was  nothing  on  the  yacht 
fitting  for  gifts  to  those  who  had  served  us  so  sweetly;  but 
the  store  came  in  handy,  and  Mr.  Morrison,  knowing  the 
%istes  of  every  woman  in  the  place,  helped  us  select.  The 
younger  maids  were  gladdened  by  wool  and  silk  shawls  of 
dainty  shades ;  Lepepa  had  a  new  ofu  of  a  coveted  print,  and 
some  excellent  German  umbrellas  came  to  light  that  were  just 
what  Vaitupu  and  Sialafua  wanted.  Soa  had  a  present  too ; 
and  I  was  obliged  to  send  a  special  messenger  for  Liuga, 
who  was  still  under  the  ban  of  Tuimanua's  displeas- 
ure. 

.  .  .  And  then  it  was  "Tofa — tofa  soi  fua!"  all  round — 
words  that  bear  all  the  lovable  significance  of  the  Hawaiian 
"Aloha  nui!" — with  handclasps  and  cheek-pressures.  Tui- 
manua  and  Vaitupu,  with  Viega  and  his  wife  and  Mr.  Mor- 
rison, accompanied  us  out  to  the  yacht,  where  the  two  ladies 
promptly  fell  sea-sick  while  inspecting  my  tiny  quarters. 
Only  one  at  a  time  could  squeeze  in,  for  my  cabin  door  was 
blocked  by  the  aforesaid  bales  of  merchandise,  and  our  guests 
had  to  compress  themselves  to  the  dimensions  of  the  narrow 
mirrored  door  between  Jack's  room  and  mine.  I  did  not 
think  Sialafua  could  do  it;  but  she  did,  although  piecemeal — 
literally  lifting  herself  through  in  sections,  the  while  shaking 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  243 

with  mirth.  It  was  Viega  who  failed.  His  mighty  chest 
stuck  fast  midway,  and  he  surveyed  my  inadequate  dormitory 
from  that  breathless  vantage. 

.  .  .  Tau  village  is  now  all  a  blur  of  palms  brushing  the 
feet  of  the  massive  mountains  cowled  in  cloud,  and  Olosenga 
looms  near,  little-big  Olosenga  that  lifts  its  minarets  1500 
feet  from  but  a  mile-long  base  washed  with  a  spouting  on- 
slaught of  breakers.  Beyond  is  Ofu  Island  (Petticoat 
Island?),  misty-green  with  distance,  and  trembling  in  the 
westering  sunlight.  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  all  the  world 
— the  ever  fresh  delight  of  flushing  green  isles  in  the  deep 
sea. 

We  have  caught  fair  wind,  and  the  Snark  is  sailing 
well.  To-morrow  will  see  her  resting  in  another  strange 
port.  It  is  bewildering,  this  flitting  from  place  to  place.  I* 
am  already  confusing  the  memories  of  Raiatea  and  Tahaa, 
Moorea  and  Bora-Bora  and  Manua ;  and  if  that  be  true,  what 
will  it  be  like  when  Tutuila,  Upolu,  Savaii,  and  the  Fijis  are 
left  behind?  But  it  is  a  joyous  jumble  of  sensations,  and 
already  we  are  thinking  still  farther  overseas,  glimpsing 
fearsome  night-sailings  past  the  shores  of  the  head-hunting 
Solomons ;  perilous  navigating  in  the  reef -netted  currents  of 
Torres  Straits,  visiting  Thursday  Island  by  the  way  to  see 
the  pearling,  and,  who  knows?  to  fulfil  Jack's  promise  of  a 
lapful !  And  there  are  Summatra's  pearls  also ;  to  say  noth- 
ing of  her  tigers  and  tapirs,  crocodiles,  and  great  elephants, 
with  vegetation  in  proportion,  flowers  of  three-foot  diameter, 
and  leaves  to  match.  And  oh,  Java — Java  with  its  unim- 
agined  lures — its  peacocks  and  flying  foxes,  five-foot  bats; 
and  terrible  tigers,  black  tigers  from  out  of  nightmare  for- 
ests of  indestructible  teak.  And  who  whispered  dragons — 
real  dragons — or  are  they  only  flying  lizards?  Java  has 
her  flora,  too,  blossoms  weighing  eighteen  pounds,  they 
say;  and  bazaars — think  of  the  India  stuffs,  and  silks,  and 
goldsmiths  who  will  make  curious  settings  for  one's  pearls 
and  cat-eyes  and  opals  caught  along  the  way! 

...  I  can  see  there  is  to  be  no  sleep  on  deck  to-night  in 


244  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

this  big  swell,  with  threatening  showers,  so  I  am  going  be- 
low and  turn  in  under  the  friendly  funnel  of  my  ventilator. 

Pago  Pago  Harbor,  Tutuila,  American  Samoa, 
Sunday,  May  3,  1908. 

We  are  not  quite  so  happy  this  morning  as  we  should  be 
in  so  lovely  a  haven.  Jack  sits  on  a  campstool  over  against 
the  side  of  the  teak  companionway,  with  a  shadowed  coun- 
tenance, and  he  is  not  even  reading — which  phenomenon  in- 
dicates that  he  is  much  preoccupied.  Captain  Warren,  with 
all  hands  and  the  cook,  is  sweating  exhaustedly  for'ard,  tak- 
ing in  anchor  chain  for  the  third  time  within  two  hours. 
And  it  was  all  unnecessary.  We  are  a  grinning  spectacle 
to  the  nautical  shore,  from  the  Governor  in  his  high  mansion 
down  to  the  least  bluejacket  on  the  beach;  and  it  had  to 
happen  in  our  own  naval  station,  of  all  places. 

.  .  .  After  keeping  off  until  daylight,  we  entered  Pago 
Pago  Harbor  under  sail,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  channel, 
and  around  the  bend  of  the  splendid  landlocked  port.  In- 
deed, so  safe  and  sheltered  is  it  that  we  needs  must  round 
the  bend  before  ever  we  could  see  the  tall  masts  of  the 
familiar  Annapolis,  lying  at  the  wharf.  We  were  surely  a 
fair  vision,  sweeping  in  with  all  sail  set,  and  were  abreast  of 
the  gunboat,  when  we  heard  her  boatswain's  whistle  and  the 
order  given  to  "lower  the  whaleboat."  On  the  instant,  Cap- 
tain Warren  let  go  anchor.  He  seemed  to  lose  his  vain  head 
over  the  fact  that  some  one  was  coming  out  to  us  from  a 
cruiser.  Jack  had  already  suggested  where  he  thought  we 
ought  to  lie,  close  in  to  a  buoy,  astern  of  the  big  ship ;  but 
Captain  Warren,  as  I  say,  lost  his  head.  It  did  not  improve 
his  temper  when  the  port  doctor  came  alongside,  instead  of 
the  elegant  uniformed  officers  whom  he  had  met  in  Papeete ; 
and  so  crusty  was  he,  that  the  Doctor  grew  excusably  cool 
to  the  Snark  crowd  generally,  and  remarked  drily  as  he  re- 
entered  his  boat,  that  we  could  not  have  selected  a  worse 
anchorage.  A  few  minutes  later,  Jack  noticed  that  we  were 
dragging  rapidly  down  upon  an  old  hulk  of  a  schooner 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  245 

anchored  in  the  middle  of  the  bay,  and  Martin  was  ordered 
to  the  engine,  while  the  rest  of  the  men  laboriously  hauled 
up  our  skating  anchor.  When  the  hook  was  out,  we  moved 
over  toward  the  buoy  Jack  had  indicated,  and  which,  by  the 
way,  the  Doctor  had  volunteered  was  the  best  place  for  us. 
On  the  way,  the  anchor  chain,  carelessly  left  with  a  single 
turn  on  the  bitts,  got  away  and  we  were  fast  again.  The 
boys  went  at  it  once  more,  straining  and  panting  in  the  heat, 
for  it  is  arduous  work  to  haul  in  fathom  upon  fathom  of 
heavy  chain-cable  twice  in  an  hour.  And  all  the  time  the 
Sabbath-lazy  bluejackets  lounged  ashore  listening  to  a  big 
phonograph  and  amusedly  watching  the  elephantine  ma- 
noeuvres of  a  small  mismanaged  American  yacht  trying  to 
pick  up  her  moorings. 

At  last,  with  great  expenditure  of  gasoline,  the  captain 
decided  he  was  where  he  wanted  to  be  (although  Jack  warned 
him  we  were  too  close  to  a  coral-rock  jetty  that  ran  out  from 
the  reef),  and  down  went  the  anchor.  Shortly  after,  two 
officers  walked  out  on  a  wooden  pier  near  by  and  called  to 
us  that  the  Governor  had  sent  word  that  we  were  too  close 
in  for  safety,  and  we  might  carry  a  line  to  the  Government 
buoy.  So  the  weary  crew  set  to  again  at  pulling  up  the 
chain,  and  before  we  had  gained  the  desired  position,  the  an- 
chor got  away  from  them  again.  And  here  we  are,  disgusted, 
and  keenly  disappointed  with  our  messy  arrival  in  Pago 
Pago,  after  our  bright  beginnings.  Jack  said  gloomily :  "I 
really  think,  when  all's  said  and  done,  I've  got  more  sailor- 
pride  than  all  the  rest  of  them  put  together — even  if  I  don't 
talk  about  it;  and  just  look  at  the  spectacle  we've  made  of 
ourselves  this  morning!"  I  feel  so  sorry  for  him;  he  spares 
nothing  in  order  to  have  things  as  they  should  be,  and  seldom 
gets  what  he  pays  for.  And  the  one  and  only  thing  in  the 
world  in  which  he  fights  for  style,  is  his  boat. 

.  .  .  These  young  Tutuilans  are  a  nuisance.  They  are 
clambering  up  our  sides  in  swarms,  and  we  have  to  order 
them  off  for  we  haven 't  room  to  turn  around ;  and  they  are 
too  sophisticated  to  be  especially  interesting.  They  are 


246  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

perky  and  impudent — but  when  Jack  pretended  that  he  was 
going  to  throw  one  small  urchin  overboard,  the  boy  began 
to  blubber.  I  was  much  amused  a  few  moments  ago  when  a 
canoe  paddled  out,  and  a  pair  of  exceedingly  pretty  half- 
caste  girls  climbed  over  the  stern  rail.  When  they  saw  a 
white  woman  aboard,  their  coquettish  quest  was  abandoned 
with  comical  alacrity,  and  they  faded  away  over  the  stern, 
returning  my  smile  and  wave  rather  dubiously.  A  big 
Samoan  came  off  to  us  and  asked  for  laundry,  presenting  a 
letter  from  some  American  officer  recommending  him  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  done  several  washings  for  him,  and  that 
he  probably  did  them  as  well  as  any  other  laundryman.  We 
managed  to  keep  our  faces  straight,  appeared  duly  impressed, 
and  referred  him  to  the  crew. 

This  harbour  is  a  prize  for  the  American  Navy,  quite 
hurricane  proof — shut  in  as  it  is  by  mountains.  The  highest, 
Matafaa,  rises  2357  feet.  On  the  starboard  side,  entering,  a 
mighty  bluff  called  Tower  Rock  juts  up  into  the  sky.  It 
bears  the  picturesque  local  name  of  The  Rainmaker,  for 
whenever  clouds  are  seen  about  its  summit,  rain  is  sure  to  be 
brewing.  To  all  appearances  we  are  in  a  mountain-girt 
lake. 

The  red-roofed  dwellings  of  the  officers  are  very  pretty, 
and  the  Governor's  House,  set  high  on  a  little  ridge  that 
projects  into  the  bay,  carries  out  the  same  colour  scheme. 

The  Annapolis,  we  learn,  is  leaving  on  Tuesday  for  Fiji, 
to  bring  back  Governor  Parker,  to  replace  Governor  Moore 
who  is  bound  home. 

Monday,  May  4,  1908. 

My!  but  it  is  good  to  be  in  a  white-man's  house  again — to 
have  two  big  breezy  rooms,  bathe  in  a  real  bathroom  in  hot 
running  water  and  cold  shower,  and  to  sleep  in  a  bed  the 
rolling  and  pitching  of  which  exists  only  in  the  mind.  Even 
my  typewriter  sits  tight,  showing  no  inclination  to  fall  into 
my  lap  nor  tilt  backward ;  nor  does  it  exchange  capitals  for 
lower  case  in  the  mad  style  it  affects  at  sea. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  247 

We  climbed  the  breathless  hillock  yesterday  to  call  on 
Governor  Moore,  and  that  gentleman  repeated  his  invita- 
tion given  in  Papeete,  to  make  ourselves  at  home  in  the  house 
as  long  as  we  please,  whether  he  is  here  or  not.  We  at  once 
moved  into  the  delightful  suite  allotted,  Nakata  playing  valet 
with  marked  success.  The  young  officers  and  their  wives 
dropped  in  during  the  evening,  and  we  renewed  our  Papeete 
acquaintance;  while  the  Governor  regaled  us  with  witty 
stories.  His  most  interesting  anecdotes,  to  us,  are  those  con- 
nected with  his  administration  in  Tutuila,  where  he  has  made 
himself  respected  and  admired  as  well  as  loved  by  the  people 
of  our  corner  of  Samoa,  barring  a  few  rebellious  souls.  The 
latter  seem  to  be  of  the  sort  that  kicks  against  the  pricks  of 
government,  and  they  are  not  to  be  found  among  the  pure 
native  element.  One  man  with  whom  there  has  been  serious 
disagreement,  is,  as  the  Governor  puts  it,  "So  crooked  he 
can't  hide  behind  a  corkscrew" — which  must  be  pretty 
crooked. 

In  general  the  inhabitants  of  American  Samoa  are  fairly 
content.  As  in  the  case  of  Tuimanua,  who  is  practically 
Governor  of  Manus  'Uma,  or  "All  Manua,"  other  chiefs 
have  been  made  governors  of  the  various  districts  on  Tutuila. 
Thus,  a  chief  named  Mauga  is  governor  of  the  Eastern  Dis- 
trict, and  the  Governor  of  the  Western  District  is  a  half- 
white,  Fauvae — both,  of  course,  answerable  to  Governor 
Moore.  Even  Tuimanua  has  a  little  colony  of  Manuans  over 
across  the  bay.  The  fita-fita,  or  policemen,  are  all  native, 
usually  of  high  rank,  and  appointed  by  the  chiefs.  They 
must  be  big  and  physically  fit  in  every  way.  Governor 
Moore's  stunning  steam-launch  crew  that  we  saw  in  Tahiti, 
is  a  good  sample  of  the  fita-fitas  we  see  here. 

.  .  .  This  forenoon  I  accounted  for  some  of  my  lost  hours 
by  bringing  Jack's  typing  up  to  date,  namely  a  new  Klon- 
dike story,  just  finished — "Lost  Face."  Then  came  an  in- 
vitation from  Mr.  Groves,  a  socialist  who  came  aboard  the 
Snark  yesterday,  to  attend  a  birthday  feast  across  the  water. 
We  accepted,  and  went  aboard  the  yacht  at  four,  to  see  about 


248  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

packing  our  Manuan  curios  for  shipment.  Mr.  Groves  sent 
a  Samoan  to  the  Snark,  who  rowed  us  in  a  chubby  little 
bobbed-off  boat  across  the  sunset  flood  and  over  the  reef  that 
hugs  the  shore.  On  landing  we  were  met  by  Mr.  Groves' 
pretty  half-caste  wife  and  a  little  son  who  looked  as  if  he 
had  stepped  right  out  of  a  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  canvas. 

We  ascended  a  short  rocky  trail  to  a  cottage  perched  on  the 
hillside,  and  found  great  preparation  going  on  for  the  feast, 
even  Mrs.  Groves'  ancient  sire  taking  part  with  zest.  Mrs. 
Groves'  attitude  concerning  him  in  relation  to  us  was  beauti- 
fully tactful.  There  was  no  embarrassment  in  her  regard  of 
the  withered  old  savage,  tattooed  and  naked  but  for  a  scant 
cloth;  but  she  was  half-apologetic  for  his  appearance,  with 
the  explanatory  but  prideful  manner  in  which  she  might  have 
accounted  for  some  custom  of  her  country  strange  to  us.  I 
must  say  few  of  us  can  lay  claim  to  a  finer  looking  parent 
than  hers;  and  the  daughter  has  the  same  clear-cut  features. 

A  bright-faced  girl  came  out  on  the  little  porch  and  made 
'ava  in  a  fascinating  fourteen-legged  bowl,  and  it  was  the 
best  we  have  tasted — a  trifle  stronger  than  the  Manuan  brew. 
By  this  time,  Dr.  Rossiter  (in  a  much  more  genial  mood  than 
the  official  one  in  which  he  boarded  the  disgraceful  Snark 
yesterday),  arrived  with  his  wife,  and  we  were  all  bedecked 
with  wreaths  of  flowers  and  vines  before  climbing  farther  up 
the  steep  to  the  feast.  It  was  spread  on  a  terraced  level  strip 
of  hill,  and  some  fifty  guests  squatted  around.  I  was  called 
upon  to  cut  the  birthday  cake,  a  towering  achievement  of 
white  frosting  and  pink  decorations  that  taxed  my  imagina- 
tion and  skill  to  the  uttermost ;  but  I  did  manage  to  separate 
it  into  over  fifty  pieces,  much  to  the  delight  of  hostess  and 
feasters.  Mrs.  Rossiter  was  appointed  to  struggle  with  a 
cake  into  which  were  baked  numberless  American  nickels, 
while  the  rest  of  us  offered  suggestions  and  criticisms  and 
generally  superintended  her. 

Aside  from  the  cakes  and  ice-cream,  it  was  the  usual  native 
spread,  with  fish  baked  in  ti  leaves,  as  in  Hawaii.  The 
cocoanuts  here  are  nearly  as  fine  as  the  Marquesan. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  249 

The  board  was  deserted  early  by  most  of  the  guests,  who 
were  anxious  to  avail  themselves  of  the  privilege  of  carrying 
home  what  they  could  not  eat.  Even  the  native  houseboys 
of  the  Americans  were  smuggling  away  the  lion's  share  of 
their  portions. 

Hanging  on  the  almost  perpendicular  mountainside,  a 
green  precipice  frowning  above  us,  we  had  a  wondrous  view 
of  the  twilight  lake  below — for  lake  it  looked  to  be,  the 
opposite  shore  glowing  softly  with  home-lights,  and  a  bugle 
from  the  Annapolis  floating  liquidly  on  the  purple  air.  After 
the  feast  we  were  entertained  with  a  siva-siva  in  a  large 
native  house,  where  three  young  maidens,  girdled  in  skirts 
of  leaves  and  feathers  and  tapa  strips,  gave  pantomimic 
dances,  somewhat  on  the  principle  of  the  Geisha.  Children 
joined  in,  moving  their  little  feet  and  hands  in  dainty  and 
graceful  rhythm.  No  civilised  dancing  of  small  folk  is  so 
unaffectedly  simple  and  beautiful  as  the  siva-siva  of  Samoa. 
These  babes  imbibe  grace  with  their  mothers'  milk,  and  are 
practically  untaught,  strictly  speaking.  They  learn  danc- 
ing along  with  walking  and  talking. 

It  was  "Tofa  sui  fua"  at  an  early  hour,  and  we  rowed 
back  across  the  ripples  of  the  bay  to  the  eternal  singing  of 
the  boatmen.  I  believe  these  dark  boys  cannot  row  without 
singing.  It  is  said  that  the  canoe-songs  of  the  Samoans  are 
old  as  the  race,  but  while  some  of  the  quaint  chants  survive, 
most  of  these  we  hear  are  of  modern  conception,  tinged  with 
the  hymn  element.  The  "  Farewell  to  Admiral  Kimberly" 
cropped  up  again  this  evening  as  a  matter  of  course,  albeit 
the  occasion  was  not  one  of  parting.  There  seems  less  at- 
tempt at  part-singing  than  with  the  Society  Islanders.  The 
Samoans  mostly  sing  in  unison,  only  occasionally  dropping 
into  harmonious  intervals. 

All  about  us  rose  the  straight  black  walls  of  the  mountains, 
as  we  skimmed  over  the  water,  and  overhead  a  tinsel  moon 
and  electric  stars  wheeled  among  dense  pillowy  white  clouds. 
It  was  as  spectacular  as  the  doldrum  skies,  which  transcend 
all  rational,  sober  naturalness. 


250  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Upon  landing,  we  went  in  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  the 
tiny  quarters  of  the  Rossiters,  and  learned  anew  what  an 
American  girl  can  do  with  some  yards  of  flowered  chintz 
and  muslin,  a  few  cushions,  a  picture  or  so,  scraps  of  card- 
board and  coloured  paper  in  the  matter  of  lampshades,  and 
an  oil  stove  and  chafing  dish.  The  Rossiters  arrived  in  Pago 
Pago  after  all  the  quarters  had  been  assigned,  but  it  did  not 
take  the  bright  " Yankee"  girl  long  to  create  out  of  nothing 
a  small  and  select  paradise  for  two. 


Tuesday,  May  5,  1908. 

Governor  Moore  bade  us  good-bye  this  morning,  on  his 
way  to  Fiji  to  meet  his  successor,  leaving  us  in  the  care  of 
Paymaster  Hilton  and  Pay  Clerk  Shute.  The  latter  comes 
from  Searsport,  and  knows  my  people.  It  does  seem  to  me 
that  persons  from  Maine,  or  connected  with  Maine,  can  find 
more  things  to  talk  about  than  those  from  any  other  State 
in  the  Union.  This  is  likely  to  be  widely  contradicted,  I 
know ! 

The  Rainmaker  was  busy  all  morning,  and  this  high  house 
shook  with  broadsides  of  wind.  So  loudly  did  rain  and  wind 
vociferate  that  we,  at  work,  listening  for  the  whistle  of  the 
departing  Annapolis,  heard  nothing  of  it,  and  she  passed 
out  of  ken  before  we  knew. 

Mrs.  Frazier,  the  Navy  Chaplain's  wife,  sent  word  for  us 
to  go  around  the  bay  with  her  in  the  afternoon,  Jack  on 
horseback,  and  I  in  the  donkey  cart  with  her.  It  seemed  odd 
to  be  talking  over  a  telephone  in  such  surroundings  mean- 
while looking  out  over  the  beautiful  green-bound  bay.  Why, 
last  night,  playing  Seeling 's  Lorelei  for  Governor  Moore  (his 
wife  had  written  him  to  ask  for  it  when  we  should  come  to 
Tutuila),  I  saw  through  the  window  the  rippling  Rhine, 
while  a  jutting  promontory  personified  the  German  Lorelei 
to  a  nicety.  Such  pictures  may  a  casement  frame! 

But  to  come  down  to  earth — I  had  a  virulent  attack  of 
prickly  heat  to-day,  and  in  desperation  tried  the  first  thing 


Lava-choked  Graves 


Lava  Pouring  into  the  Sea,  Savaii 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  251 

that  came  into  my  head,  which  happened  to  be  a  thorough 
lathering  of  Castile  soap,  allowed  to  remain  on  half  an  hour. 
Then  a  brisk  cold  shower,  and  the  cure  was  complete. 

Mrs.  Frazier  drove  through  the  naval  settlement  and  be- 
yond along  a  road  so  narrow  that  only  this  one  vehicle,  made 
to  order  for  the  purpose,  can  travel  at  all.  One  other  person 
in  Pago  Pago  has  a  cart,  but  forgot  to  measure  the  highway 
before  sending  for  it.  It  languishes  unused  in  a  shed  of 
sugar-cane  thatch. 

The  shore  and  the  feet  of  the  steep  hills  are  dotted  with 
little  hamlets  of  Samoan  fales.  They  are  not  quite  so  fine 
as  the  Manua  houses,  but  then,  Manua  was  not  so  long  ago 
the  centre  of  Samoa  'Uma,  whence  issued  the  governmental 
edicts  for  the  entire  group.  As  we  jogged  through  the  quiet 
little  villages,  resting  so  peacefully  under  Uncle  Sam 's  juris- 
diction, I  recalled  something  I  had  read  about  alert  and 
bloody  years  when  the  Fijians  came  over  and  conquered  the 
Samoans,  driving  them  from  their  sea  coast  homes  back  into 
the  rugged  interior,  where  they  perforce  became  mountain- 
eers. To  this  day  can  be  seen  the  remains  of  great  roads 
that  the  transplanted  beach-lovers  constructed  in  the 
troublous  past. 

In  Mauga's  village  his  wife,  Faapia,  stepped  out  of  her 
well  ordered  fale  and  was  introduced  to  me — a  pretty 
woman,  fair  for  her  race,  although  of  pure  breed.  The 
aristocracy  once  more.  On  our  return  in  the  dusk,  she  spied 
us  and  came  out  again,  hands  full  of  tasteful  nosegays,  which 
she  pinned  on  our  bosoms  and  set  over  our  left  ears,  and  in 
our  hair. 

I  saw  the  handsomest  islander — I  might  almost  say  the 
handsomest  man  I  have  ever  seen.  The  graceful  Adonis  of 
Hooumi  pales  before  this  Apollo  of  Polynesia.  Covered  only 
with  a  red  loin  cloth,  he  paced  majestically  along,  as  if 
happy  in  princely  superiority  of  manhood,  his  severe 
straight-featured  countenance  breaking  into  the  most  genial 
of  smiles  in  eyes  and  mouth  when  he  answered  Mrs.  Frazier 's 
pleasant  "Talofa."  His  hair,  in  sharp-cut  contours,  was 


252  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

plastered  white,  and  he  walked  head  and  shoulders  above 
his  fellows. 

Mrs.  Frazier  is  very  popular  along  the  waterside,  and  I 
am  sure  we  said  "Talofa — tofa,  soi  fua,"  a  million  times 
more  or  less,  and  heard  the  words  as  many  times  again.  We 
talked  of  Tuimanua,  whom  Mrs.  Frazier  has  entertained  in 
her  home  many  an  afternoon.  And  she  says  he  comprehends 
English  very  well,  although  he  refuses  to  speak  it.  Evi- 
dently we  did  not  irk  His  Majesty,  for  he  sent  a  letter  by  us 
to  the  Governor  in  which  he  said  we  had  been  ' '  Very  good ' ' 
and  that  he  had  been  pleased  with  us.  We  are  indeed 
pleased,  for  we  lack  words  to  describe  our  admiration  for  so 
great  a  man  among  his  kind.  Our  hope  is  that  the  kingly 
Manuan  may  die  before  he  ever  fully  realises  how  little  of  a 
sovereign  he  is  in  actuality.  It  is  no  pleasure  to  break  a 
heart  and  spirit  like  his — which  is  a  wholly  gratuitous  and 
ridiculous  observation,  because  spirits  like  Tuimanua 's  can- 
not be  broken. 

Aboard  the  SnarJc, 
At  sea,  Tutuila  to  Upolu, 
Wednesday,  May  6,  1908. 

Sit  with  me  here  and  run  your  glance  along  the  "iron- 
bound"  leagues  of  Tutuila 's  coast,  where  snow-white  surf 
breaks  against  the  inky  lava  of  forgotten  volcanoes,  or  forces 
under  and  out  through  the  crevices  of  spouting  columns. 
Then  follow  up  along  the  twilit  foothills  to  where  the  sink- 
ing sun  pours  streams  of  gold  down  guttered  mountains,  and 
the  clouds  and  mists  of  evening  swirl  and  stir  the  colours 
into  a  riot  of  brilliant  green  and  gold.  Then  gaze  close  into 
the  jewelled  waves  that  break  and  foam  against  our  white 
boat,  and  say  if  it  is  not  a  beautiful,  beautiful  world  of 
shimmering  land  and  flowing  water  and  lambent  air.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  They  watched  us  out  of  sight,  the  wholesome,  clean, 
hearty  young  pairs  of  the  Navy,  first  coming  aboard  to  wish 
godspeed  and  to  inspect  the  wonderful  small  boat  that  had 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  253 

borne  us  so  far.  They  brought  us  presents,  too — Samoan 
baskets,  and  precious  eggs;  while  on  the  wharf  stood  our 
Manuan  burdens,  boxed  and  labelled  for  California. 

We  took  away  a  new  sailor,  one  Henry,  a  Rapa  Islander 
(Society  Group)  who  came  aboard  the  first  day  in  Tutuila 
and  helped  Tehei  manfully,  having  him  ashore  in  the 
evening  and  making  that  homesick  Brown  Brother  much  hap- 
pier. Henry  seems  to  be  an  able  man,  and  when  he  applied 
for  a  berth,  Jack  decided  to  accept  him,  for  we  must  rid 
ourselves  of  poor  Ernest,  whose  uselessness,  and  penchant  for 
ordering  others  around,  together  with  his  unfortunate 
malady,  make  him  most  undesirable.  We  could  not  lose  him 
at  Pago  Pago,  for  he  could  not  pass  the  Port  Doctor.  And 
as  there  was  no  vessel  there  upon  which  he  might  have 
shipped,  we  can  only  hope  for  better  luck  at  Apia.  Captain 
Warren,  knowing  that  we  do  not  want  to  keep  the  boy, 
sharpens  his  wits  on  the  poor  fellow  to  the  tune  of  a  sort  of 
sarcasm  that  completely  robs  Ernest  of  any  little  sense  he 
has. 

Henry  speaks  half  a  dozen  languages,  and  is  a  quick,  smart 
man,  about  thirty,  partially  bald,  with  a  wry  smile  belied 
by  the  good  natured  expression  of  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes  that 
seem  to  miss  nothing.  He  has  been  around  the  world  sev- 
eral times,  owns  to  a  slight  streak  of  French  blood,  and  was 
fourteen  years  at  school  in  Paris. 

I  do  not  know  what  ails  Captain  Warren,  he  has  grown  so 
careless.  We  had  hardly  cleared  the  passage  this  afternoon, 
going  out,  when  zip !  went  the  anchor  chain  again,  and  we 
were  bucking  against  the  sea,  weighted  with  the  heavy  hook. 
Many  things  that  should  have  been  done  in  port  have  been 
left  undone,  and  we  are  none  too  happy  over  the  way  things 
are  going.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  see  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, with  the  chance  of  his  life  to  make  good,  letting  the 
chance  slip. 

.  .  .  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  words  often  come  to  me 
when  I  consider  the  superfluity  of  men  on  this  small  boat: 


254  THE  LQG  OF  THE  SNARK 


world  is  too  much  with  me."  There  are  nine  of  us, 
and  that  is  all  of  two  too  many  in  a  space  56  feet  long,  by 
15  feet  at  the  widest. 

.  .  .  The  'longshore  lights  are  blossoming,  one  by  one, 
and  a  young  moon  is  rising  in  the  east.  I  hear  the  inviting 
whir  of  an  electric  fan  below,  and  am  going  to  climb  into 
my  dainty,  clean,  comfy  bunk  and  read. 

"Goo'  ni'!"  purrs  Tehei  from  the  wheel,  and  Good  Night 
it  is,  with  Good  Morning  to  come,  in  sight  of  Upolu  and  the 
smoke  of  Savaii's  unresting  volcano. 

International  Hotel, 
Apia,  Upolu,  German  Samoa, 

Friday,  May  8,  1908. 

Such  a  sleep,  and  such  a  rejuvenated  sailorwoman  this 
morning  !  We  have  just  come  back  to  our  rooms  in  the  hotel, 
after  calling  upon  Mr.  H.  J.  Moors  in  his  home  over  one  of 
his  many  stores  on  the  island.  We  wasted  no  time  getting 
on  the  subject  of  Stevenson,  and  so  absorbing  was  it  to  hear 
of  that  beloved  man  from  the  lips  of  one  who  knew  him 
intimately,  that  Jack  came  near  forfeiting  his  day  's  work. 

.  .  .  At  seven  yesterday  morning  we  were  twenty-five 
miles  off  Upolu,  but  the  wind  dropped  and  we  did  not  come 
to  anchor  in  Apia  Harbor  until  sunset.  In  the  late  after- 
noon, sailing  for  miles  along  the  barrier  reef  that  frills  a 
green  lagoon  surrounding  the  land  like  a  moat,  we  found 
the  island  very  lovely  —  reminding  us  of  Raiatea  in  its  gen- 
eral aspect.  There  must  have  been  heavy  rains,  for  we  saw 
numerous  high  waterfalls  leaping  sheer  green  walls  on  the 
mountainsides. 

As  the  Snark  slid  along,  we  began  to  exclaim  at  the  mag- 
nificent condition  of  this  German  province  —  the  leagues  of 
copra  plantation,  extending  from  the  shore  up  into  the 
mountainous  hinterland,  thousands  of  close-crowded  acres 
of  heavy  green  palms.  There  was  an  orderly  prosperity 
about  the  country  that  spoke  well  for  German  management. 

The  sunset  was  a  vast  miracle  of  gorgeous  suffusing  colour, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  255 

softened  by  drifting  smoke  from  the  volcano  on  Savaii.  We 
had  been  watching  all  afternoon  the  white  slanting  column  of 
steam  from  lava  running  hot  into  the  sea.  Back  of  Apia, 
upon  a  green  ridge  of  Veea  Mountain,  the  German  pilot 
told  us  lay  Stevenson's  tomb. 

Under  the  jolly  pilot's  direction,  Captain  "Warren's  un- 
accountable resentment  of  which  he  did  not  try  to  conceal, 
we  made  anchorage  without  aid  from  the  engine.  Immedi- 
ately we  were  beset  by  native  wash-men,  bringing  their  soiled 
letters  of  recommendation.  The  pilot  had  but  just  left,  and 
Jack  and  I  had  got  into  our  shoregoing  ducks,  when  a  news- 
paperman came  aboard  for  an  interview.  He  looked  upon 
Jack  with  adoring  eyes  from  the  moment  they  came  to- 
gether, and  has  made  good  this  love-at-first-sight  by  offering 
us  the  use  of  his  two  race  horses — his  idols,  The  Fop  and 
Emele.  He  did  not  urge  them  upon  us  when  we  asked  if 
we  could  get  good  horses  ashore ;  but  when  he  found  we  cared 
enough  for  horses  to  lug  our  own  saddles  over  the  world 
and  back,  The  Fop  and  Emele  were  ours — only,  he  suggested 
that  Jack  would  better  ride  Emele.  His  name  is  Charles 
Roberts,  an  Englishman,  who,  with  his  wife,  keeps  a  small 
inn.  He  said  his  house  would  not  be  comfortable  for  us,  or 
he  would  insist  upon  our  staying  there.  We  packed  a  grip 
and  went  ashore  with  him,  where  we  inspected  his  saddles  and 
bridles,  hanging  at  one  end  of  the  dim  bar-room,  and  met 
"The  Missis."  Every  matron  here  is  "the  Missis,"  and  I 
have  become  "the  Missis"  also.  But  then,  Nakata  has  al- 
ways called  me  "Missis,"  probably  so  coached  by  Wada. 

We  put  up  at  the  highly  recommended  International,  where 
we  can  see  the  Snark's  saucy  flag  in  the  distance — through 
the  ribbed  wreck  of  the  old  Adler,  lying  where  she  went 
ashore  in  1889 's  hurricane.  Meals  are  served  in  an 
open  second-story  at  the  back  of  the  house,  whence  we  can 
look  out  across  the  reef  to  the  sea.  Mr.  Easthope,  sitting  at 
one  end  of  his  long  table,  resembles  no  one  so  much  as  the 
merry  Falstaff — a  handsome,  florid  soul  with  smart  white 
moustaches  and  imperial,  who  loses  and  finds  his  h's  in  true 


256  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Cheapside  fashion.  It  is  whispered  that  of  old  he  was  a 
pirate  and  a  blackbirder.  If  this  be  true,  all  I  can  say  is  that 
he  must  have  done  his  deeds  with  picturesque  dash  and  style, 
and  that  he  has  reformed  most  gracefully,  for  never  did 
mine  host  look  or  act  better  the  part,  with  his  true  wife  at 
his  elbow,  and  his  beautiful  half-caste  daughter  never  far 
off.  When  guests  order  drinks,  his  invariable  "Whisky  for 
mine/'  never  comes  amiss.  One  can  easily  understand,  after 
a  look  at  his  jovial  countenance,  how  men  must  be  willing  to 
pay  for  unnumbered  drinks  for  him,  just  for  the  privilege  of 
hearing  him  order  them. 

...  It  was  four  o'clock  when  Mr.  Koberts,  in  his  light 
breeks  and  topboots,  the  picture  of  an  English  jockey,  brought 
the  horses.  We  were  ready,  and  I  was  writing,  when  there 
came  the  clatter  of  hoof  beats  in  the  yard.  They  sounded  so 
ringing  and  cheery,  those  small  iron  feet  of  flight,  that  I  cried 
out  in  delight  and  ran  to  our  balcony  to  look  down  upon  the 
saddled  backs  of  two  of  the  prettiest  golden  sorrels  I  ever 
want  to  see.  I  fell  over  several  things  when  I  flew  back  to 
Jack,  who  waited  laughing  and  commented :  * '  The  kid ! ' ' 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  mounting,  I  on  The  Fop,  whose 
knowing  eye  and  staid  ten  years  belied  certain  frolicsome 
traits  I  was  to  learn.  Jack  bestrode  Emele,  in  whose  flaring 
nostril  and  white-cornered  eye  one  may  read  who  runs  (if 
he  can  run  fast  enough)  disaster  for  him  who  sits  not  close 
and  well.  Of  course  both  beasts  wanted  to  race,  and  we  had 
our  hands  full. 

Out  of  town,  we  cantered  along  ferny  byways  edged  with 
sensitive  plant  that  shrank  away  from  our  hoofs,  its  slant- 
ing shudder  communicated  throughout  the  green  mantle  like 
a  nervous  chill.  The  copra  plantations  looked  in  thriving 
condition,  the  palms,  young  and  old,  set  in  regular  rows,  acre 
upon  acre,  with  sleek  red  and  white  cattle  transmuting  ferns 
and  lush  grasses  into  butter-fat.  We  worked  around  through 
a  pale-pillared  forest  of  palms  and  found  ourselves  on  fine 
hard  beach,  where  Apia's  racing  meets  are  held.  The  ride 
home  was  along  the  beach,  when  we  didn't  leave  it  to  cut 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  257 

across  arms  of  lagoons,  our  animals  lifting  their  feet  like 
kittens  above  the  water.  It  was  a  delectable  ride,  and  all- 
too-short.  But  the  horses,  for  all  their  early  friskiness,  had 
had  enough  for  one  afternoon  in  such  humid  climate.  They 
are  the  only  horses  we  have  seen  that  are  clean  of  sores.  If 
horses  are  not  groomed  carefully  here,  they  contract  a  dis- 
ease that  eats  their  hides  in  spreading  sores,  which  also  at- 
tack the  face,  sometimes  entirely  destroying  the  eyes. 

.  .  .  After  dinner,  we  went  over  and  talked  Stevenson 
again  with  Mr.  Moors,  and  borrowed  from  his  library,  which 
is  largely  stocked  with  books  brought  from  Mrs.  Stevenson 
after  her  husband's  death.  Then  his  daughter,  Rosa,  and  I 
discussed  fans  and  mats  and  hats,  and  she  filled  my  arms 
with  a  variety  of  Samoan  fans  when  we  departed,  while 
Jack  carried  away  the  gift  of  a  Talking  Man's  fly-brush 
made  of  white  horsehair  on  a  handle  of  ironwood.  We  were 
much  interested  in  two  chair-rugs  they  had,  made  from 
shredded  bark  and  resembling  long  white  goat-hair.  The 
wrong  side  is  merely  a  fine  woven  mat.  The  natives  no 
longer  make  these  rugs,  but  Mr.  Moors  thinks  he  may  locate 
one  that  we  can  buy. 

Apia,  Upolu,  Samoa, 
Saturday,  May  9,  1908. 

Stevenson's  Vailima,  literally  " Waters  Five/'  named  from 
the  streams  that  once  met  on  the  place,  lies  about  three  miles 
of  steady  slope  from  Apia.  We  started  in  the  early  after- 
noon— although  it  seems  "always  afternoon"  in  this  sunny 
land — Jack  with  Rosa  Moors  in  a  high  black  jaunting  cart 
drawn  by  a  stout  black  roadster,  native  groom  behind  with 
a  parasol  over  their  heads.  I  rode  a  brown  mare  that  Rosa 
brought,  as  I  am  looking  for  all  the  exercise  possible. 

We  fared  happily  along  the  lovely  climbing  road,  shaded 
by  tropic  trees,  bamboo,  palm,  fau,  hibiscus,  and  a  dozen 
more,  with  little  to  remind  us  of  our  tender  quest  until  we 
turned  into  The  Road  of  Loving  Hearts,  the  Ala  Loto  Alofa 
of  the  Samoans,  that  leads  from  the  main  highway  to  the 


258  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

gates  of  Vailima.  This  road  was  made  by  the  hands  of  na- 
tives of  lofty  caste,  led  and  helped  by  the  six  liberated  chiefs 
of  Mataafa's  following,  who  had  been  befriended  by  Steven- 
son during  political  difficulties  with  the  foreign  Powers  that 
ended  in  the  imprisonment  of  these  chiefs.  Stevenson 's  own 
words  will  best  make  clear  the  value  of  this  gift  of  labour, 
and  also  give  a  glimpse  of  his  sane  sympathy  with  the 
Samoan  nature : 

"Now  whether  or  not  this  impulse  will  last  them  through 
the  road  does  not  matter  to  me  one  hair.  It  is  the  fact  that 
they  have  attempted  it,  that  they  have  volunteered,  and  are 
now  trying  to  execute,  a  thing  that  was  never  before  heard 
of  in  Samoa.  Think  of  it!  It  is  road-making,  the  most 
fruitful  cause,  after  taxes,  of  all  rebellion  in  Samoa,  a  thing 
to  which  they  could  not  be  wiled  with  money,  nor  driven  by 
punishment.  It  does  give  me  a  sense  of  having  done  some- 
thing in  Samoa  after  all. ' ' 

This  astounding  memorial  to  the  Man  who  Understood, 
should  be  marked  by  some  abiding  symbol,  and  England 
should  look  to  it.  For  this  Eoad  of  Loving  Hearts,  first 
called  by  its  builders  The  Eoad  of  Gratitude,  is  a  monument 
far  more  significant  than  any  tomb  of  massive  proportions. 
Now,  even  the  board,  made  and  lettered  by  the  chiefs,  that 
once  pointed  the  way  to  Vailima,  is  gone.  Stevenson — their 
Story  Teller,  their  Tusitala,  touched  by  the  tribute,  had  al- 
ready prepared  a  graving  to  immortalise  his  appreciation  of 
what  his  brown  brothers  had  done;  but  the  brown  brothers 
had  other  plans,  and  he  was  obliged  to  let  them  inscribe  the 
sign-post  with  their  own  words,  which,  translated,  read: 

"Remembering  the  great  kindness  of  His  Highness  Tusitala, 
and  his  loving  care  when  we  were  imprisoned  in  sore  distress,  we 
have  made  for  him  an  enduring  gift,  this  road  which  we  have  dug 
to  last  forever.  It  shall  never  be  muddy,  it  shall  endure,  this  road 
that  we  have  dug."  . 

We  are  not  the  first  world-wanderers  in  a  small  boat  who 
have  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Vailima.  Our  friend  Captain 
Slocum  touched  at  Apia  in  the  Spray,  during  the  residence 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  259 

of  the  widow,  who  presented  the  plucky  old  mariner  with  a 
handsome  set  of  Sailing  Directions  of  the  Mediterranean 
from  her  husband's  library.  Alas,  there  are  now  no  books 
nor  other  personal  possessions  of  the  author's  left  in  the 
great  house,  which  has  been  added  to  in  order  to  meet  the 
needs  of  the  German  Governor  who  owns  it. 

The  caretaker  was  away,  and  we  could  not  even  go  into 
the  building,  but  Rosa  took  us  where  we  could  peep  into  the 
great  hall.  Stevenson  had  a  terrible  time  planning  that 
house.  He  would  bring  his  projected  sketches  and  elevations 
to  Mr.  Moors  for  certain  disapproval,  and  that  critic 
regularly  convinced  his  friend  that  the  schemes  were  unprac- 
tical and  unsuited  to  the  tropics  and  his  needs.  Finally,  the 
homeless  Scotsman  returned  from  a  voyage  to  Sydney,  en- 
thusiastic over  the  perfected  drawings  of  an  Australian  archi- 
tect who  had  caught  the  fine  sense  of  his  client's  manorial 
dream.  Mr.  Moors  gasped  when  the  sheets  were  spread  out 
before  him.  The  dimensions  were  for  a  castle,  or  a  great 
mansion  at  the  least.  Poor  Robert  Louis  wilted  under  the 
gentle  sarcasm  of  Moors,  and  came  down  tremendously 
on  all  the  measurements  except  those  of  the  main  hall,  which 
he  would  reduce  but  little.  It  was  his  pet  hobby,  that  hall, 
and  provided  with  a  vast  fireplace,  to  feed  a  proportionately 
vast  chimney.  "What  on  earth  do  you  want  that  for?" 
demanded  Moors.  "You'll  never  be  able  to  use  it  in  this 
climate,  and  it  will  cost  you  a  fortune  to  haul  the  bricks  and 
stones  and  mortar  up  that  hill,  and  to  build  it  after  you  get 
them  there." 

Stevenson  was  crestfallen  but  obstinate.  He  could  see  the 
practical  absurdity  of  the  fireplace,  but  what  was  a  living- 
hall  without  a  fireplace  ?  Besides,  that  was  the  way  they  did 
it  in  Scotland,  and  it  made  the  room  look  like  home.  No  one 
could  argue  against  this,  so  the  fireplace  went  in,  and  one 
cannot  but  be  glad  he  realised  his  dear  desire.  He  paid 
for  it,  and  it  was  one  of  the  few  desires  he  did  realise,  for  all 
his  arduous  pursuit  of  happiness.  That  Heart  of  Gold  must 
have  been  heavy  in  his  bosom,  for  he  once  wrote  what  is  a 


260  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sad  admission  for  his  lovers  to  read — "I  was  only  happy 
once  ...  it  came  to  an  end  from  a  variety  of  reasons,  de- 
cline of  health,  change  of  place,  increase  of  money,  age  with 
his  stealing  steps ;  since  then,  as  before  then,  I  know  not  what 
it  means.  But  I  know  pleasure  still,  pleasure  with  a  thou- 
sand faces  and  none  perfect,  a  thousand  tongues  all  broken, 
a  thousand  hands  and  all  of  them  with  scratching  nails. 
High  among  these  I  place  this  delight  of  weeding  out  here, 
alone  by  the  garrulous  water,  under  the  silence  of  the  high 
wood,  broken  by  incongruous  sounds  of  birds." 

From  the  upper  front  veranda  we  pressed  our  faces  against 
the  window  panes  of  Tusitala  's  bedroom,  over  the  inner  door 
of  which  jarred  the  portrait  of  the  Kaiser.  Then  we  gazed 
through  the  glass  into  the  "Temple  of  Peace,"  the  inner 
sanctuary  where  the  master  wove  his  spells.  How  will  our 
own  shelves  of  him  look  to  us  when  we  see  them  again! 
Straightway  into  the  back  of  our  eyes  will  come  the  vision 
of  a  small  dismantled  room  overlooking  the  slope  of  Veea 
Mountain  and  the  shining  sea  sparkling  through  his  garden 
trees. 

As  we  looked  around  over  the  present  formal  garden  with 
its  disk  of  lawn  bordered  in  brilliant  box,  and  its  gay-foliaged 
crotons  and  dracenas,  there  came  to  us  the  breath  of  the 
perfumed  things  of  the  land,  papaia,  frangipani,  waxen 
gardenia,  and  even  the  scent  of  orange  blossom.  And  we 
thought  of  how  the  place  must  have  appeared  to  its  old  owner 
when  he  began  to  grapple  with  the  wild  for  a  space  that 
would  not  choke  his  dwelling.  But  he  enjoyed  his  combat 
with  the  growing  earth.  He  was  "aye  a  magerful  man/' 
was  Stevenson,  fighting  for  health  in  life,  since  he  must  live, 
striving  to  enjoy  that  life  while  it  was  imposed  upon  him, 
gaining  upon  his  work  against  bitterest  odds.  His  strife 
with  nature  was  unique — he  realised  this  when  he  said,  in 
connection  with  his  eternal  weeding  and  other  garden  work : 

"I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  had  the  same  attitude  to  nature 
as  I  hold.  This  business  fascinates  me  like  a  tune  or  a  pas- 
sion, yet  all  the  while  I  thrill  with  a  strong  distaste  ...  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  261 

superstitious  horror  of  the  void  and  the  powers  about  me,  the 
horror  of  my  own  devastation  and  continual  murders.  The 
life  of  the  plants  comes  through  my  finger-tips,  their 
struggles  go  to  my  heart  like  supplications,  I  feel  myself 
blood  boltered — then  I  look  back  on  my  cleared  grass,  and 
count  myself  an  ally  in  a  fair  quarrel,  and  make  stout  my 
heart." 

One  child  of  nature  there  was,  however,  that  elicited  from 
him  no  qualms  of  sympathy.  This  was  the  Sensitive  Plant, 
whose  pretty  acacia-like  foliage  and  lilac-pink  pompons  are 
nearly  as  great  a  pest  in  Samoa  as  is  the  lantana  in  Hawaii. 
It  overspreads  rock  and  roadside,  height  and  hollow,  and  one 
can  appreciate  how  Stevenson  regarded  his  continuous  en- 
counter with  the  insidious  creeper:  "A  fool  brought  it  to 
this  island  in  a  pot,  and  used  to  lecture  and  sentimentalize 
over  the  tender  thing.  The  tender  thing  has  now  taken 
charge  of  this  island,  and  men  fight  it,  with  torn  hands,  for 
bread  and  life." 

Almost  one  expects  to  see  his  half  sad,  half  whimsical  face 
at  an  upper  window,  or  his  slender  back  bent  over  the  weed- 
ing of  the  grass.  Then  the  utter  silence  of  all  things  calls 
one  to  reality  with  a  pain  at  the  heart — "Alas!  for  Tusitala 
he  sleeps  in  the  forest." 

We  took  no  guide  farther  than  the  beginning  of  the  trail 
that  rises  on  the  other  side  of  one  of  the  Five  Rivers.  Rosa 
Moors  wanted  to  send  her  native  groom  with  us,  as  she  did 
not  care  to  make  the  climb ;  but  we  preferred  to  go  alone. 

Through  the  dense  bush  and  forest  of  the  mountain  a  broad 
swath  has  been  cut  straight  up  the  uncompromising  steep,  the 
clearing  laced  back  and  forth  with  a  tiny  pathway,  water- 
eroded,  beset  by  rock  and  root  and  clinging  creeper.  We 
set  our  faces  to  the  hidden  goal  and  plunged  up  through  the 
cool  still  gloom,  treading  blossoming  things  that  resembled 
violet  plants  bearing  snowdrops,  and  now  and  then  stepping 
into  a  drift  of  pink  petals  blown  from  trees.  As  we  clawed 
into  the  stiff  ascent  we  began  to  be  gently  depressed  with 
the  spirit  of  the  place.  At  intervals  a  dove  mourned  in  the 


262  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

woods,  and  our  thoughts  turned  to  the  stories  we  had  heard  of 
Tusitala  's  death — how  he  was  stricken  suddenly  the  very  day 
he  had  been  talking  of  death  and  of  his  desire  to  be  buried 
on  the  mount,  in  the  spot  where  the  frail  frame  of  him  now 
lies.  "Why,  the  man  died  of  too  much  health,"  Mr.  Moors 
had  declared;  "he  hadn't  been  better  for  years,  but  his  veins 
could  not  carry  the  good  blood  he  had  in  him.  Something 
went  wrong,  and  a  blood  vessel  burst  in  his  brain."  And 
when  the  natives  heard  what  had  happened,  and  it  was 
verified  to  them,  waiting  without,  that  Tusitala,  their  Story 
Teller,  indeed  lay  low  in  death,  they  set  up  a  universal  wail- 
ing that  must  sorely  have  tried  the  endurance  of  the  mourn- 
ers within. 

"How  did  they  do  it?"  I  panted  as  we  struggled  upward 
— ' '  How  did  they  ever  carry  him  up  this  place  ?  And  what 
way  was  there  to  go — this  swath  has  been  cut  since  ? ' ' 

Oh,  the  bereaved  Samoans  saw  to  it  all,  Jack  told  me — five 
hundred  of  them  attacked  the  woods  by  night,  when  they 
heard  the  wish  of  their  Beloved  to  be  laid  upon  Veea,  and  in 
the  morning  the  path  was  ready  and  the  pitiful  spot  cleared. 
And  they  bore  Tusitala  on  their  own  chieftain  shoulders,  with 
lines  carried  up  the  mountain  as  well  to  help.  One  white 
man  came  into  it  all,  too.  It  was  found  after  the  funeral 
that  the  place  of  burial  was  outside  the  confines  of  Vailima ; 
whereupon  the  owner,  Mr.  Trude,  promptly  made  over  the 
piece  of  property  as  a  gift  to  the  family. 

If  ever  you  go  to  Stevenson's  tomb,  do  not  believe  the 
soft-eyed  native  who  tells  you  that  two  young  palms  mark 
the  half  of  the  climb.  It  seemed  ages  before  we  reached  those 
trees,  and  we  breathed  ourselves  for  a  fresh  start  on  a  tug 
as  long  as  that  we  had  already  come.  But  it  was  not  half 
of  the  half,  and  all  at  once,  at  a  sharp  turn  around  a  large 
boulder,  I  was  suddenly  confronted  with  the  grey  gabled 
sarcophagus  resting  upon  its  broader  foundation,  and  cried, 
startled,  "Oh,  Mate — Mate!"  Then  we  went  forward  hand 
in  hand,  and  tears  were  in  our  eyes  to  think  of  that  little 
great  man  lying  under  the  weight  of  woful  stone.  A  fresh 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  263 

double  scarlet  hibiscus  was  upon  the  foundation  slab,  where 
it  must  lately  have  been  laid  by  some  furtive  living  mourner, 
after  all  the  long  years.  The  querulous  pipe  of  a  mellow- 
throated  bird  came  from  the  thicket  close  by,  as  if  resenting 
our  disturbing  the  sacred  solitude,  and  the  rays  of  the  low 
sun  slanted  through  the  rustling  f  au  trees  and  across  the  grey 
tomb.  On  the  western  face  of  the  gabled  concrete  are  cast 
in  Samoan  the  words  of  Ruth  to  Naomi,  with  a  Scotch  thistle 
and  a  hibiscus  to  right  and  left : 

"Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will 
lodge ;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people  and  thy  God  my  God ;  where 
thou  diest  I  will  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried." 

On  the  opposite  side  we  read  the  verse,  with  its  great  sim- 
plicity, that  Stevenson  wrote  for  his  own  grave : 

"Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die 
And  I  lay  me  down  with  a  will 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be 
Home  is  the  sailor  home  from  the  sea 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 

We  turned  on  the  brink  of  the  descent  for  a  last  look  at 
the  quiet  stone  drifted  over  by  withered  leaves,  and  then 
dropped  to  the  trail,  full  of  a  peaceful  melancholy. 
"Here  he  lies  where  all  must  come,  after  days  grown  weari- 
some, ' '  came  to  my  lips ;  and  Jack  said  in  a  subdued  voice : 
"I  wouldn't  have  gone  out  of  my  way  to  visit  the  grave  of 
any  other  man  in  the  world."  It  is  not  going  out  of  one's 
way  in  Paris  to  see  Napoleon's  tomb,  nor  to  find  oneself 
leaning  against  Wellington's  in  St.  Paul's.  "But  this,  but 
this  was  you,"  Tusitala. 

"Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die,"  wove  into  our  spirits  as 
we  let  ourselves  down  the  trail,  and  when  we  crossed  the  river 
again  on  its  narrow  broad,  we  were  glad  enough  over  our 
own  aliveness  to  yearn  toward  a  deep  pool  under  a  spread- 
ing bamboo  tree.  But  Rosa  was  calling  from  the  sunset 


264  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

garden,  and  we  hastened  to  where,  on  the  green  wheel  of 
lawn,  she  sat  amidst  baskets  of  peeled  oranges,  mangoes,  and 
loving-cups  of  cocoanut  ready  opened. 

It  is  all  over.  We  have  seen  Vailima's  many  porches 
where  our  Robert  Louis  broke  breadfruit  with  his  loved 
brown  brothers  in  days  gone  by,  oh,  such  a  little  while  in  our 
thought.  One  thinks  of  Yailima  as  with  his  living  presence 
directing  the  life  there;  or,  when  he  must  rest,  sleeping  as 
he  wished  to  sleep,  with  patient  folded  hands,  upon  the  twi- 
light mountain. 

A  few  days  before  his  passing,  the  Story  Teller  received 
this  poem  from  Edmund  Gosse : 

"Now  the  skies  are  pure  above  you,  Tusitala, 
Feathered  trees  bow  down  before  you, 
Perfumed  winds  from  shining  water 
Stir  the  sanguine-leaved  hibiscus, 
That  your  kingdom's  dusk-eyed  daughters 
Weave  about  their  shining  tresses. 
Dew-fed  guavas  drop  their  viscous 
Honey  at  the  sun's  caresses, 
Where  eternal  summer  blesses 
Your  ethereal  musky  highlands. 

"You  are  circled,  as  by  magic, 
In  a  surfy  palm-built  bubble,  Tusitala. 
Fate  hath  chosen,  but  the  choice  is 
Half  delectable,  half  tragic, 
For  we  hear  you  speak  like  Moses 
And  we  greet  you  back  enchanted, 
But  reply's  no  sooner  granted 
Than  the  rifted  cloud-land  closes." 

It  would  seem  that  all  the  gifts  of  circumstance  surround- 
ing his  death  were  as  poetic  as  he  tried  to  make  his  life. 

"Glad  did  I  live" — "I  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  closed  the  door." 


Sunday,  May  10,  1908. 

We  have  been  picking  up  something  of  the  history  of  our 
Tehei.  A  young  woman  we  have  met  saw  him  in  town,  and 
they  recognised  each  other,  for  it  seems  he  was  cook  on  the 
Eimeo,  a  schooner  belonging  to  her  cousin,  Mr.  Dexter,  when 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  265 

that  vessel  was  wrecked,  literally  blown  to  pieces,  in  the 
Paumotus  during  the  1906  hurricane  that  swept  the  Danger- 
ous Archipelago  and  Tahiti.  Tehei  and  another  Tahitian 
were  the  sole  survivors  of  the  Eimeo.  They  managed  to 
catch  hold  of  a  hatch-cover  that  had  been  torn  loose  by  the 
wind,  and  for  three  days  the  two  were  in  the  water  under 
the  tropic  sun,  one  in  and  one  out  alternately,  for  there  was 
only  room  on  the  hatch  for  a  single  person  to  rest  high  and 
dry.  In  the  end  they  sighted  the  low  island  of  Tahanea, 
and  by  waving  the  rag  of  a  shirt  that  was  left  between 
them,  the  attention  of  the  natives  was  attracted,  and  they 
sent  out  a  boat.  And  Tehei  never  has  breathed  a  word  about 
the  adventure,  not  even  to  Henry,  who  could  have  trans- 
lated. 

Jack  rose  early  this  morning  and  had  his  work  done  be- 
fore breakfast,  for  at  nine  Mr.  Roberts  and  Dr.  Davis,  the 
dentist,  were  to  come  to  take  us  on  a  ride  through  the  cacao 
plantations.  And  lo!  Mr.  Roberts  said  Emele  was  a  little 
light  for  Jack's  weight,  and  would  I  mind  riding  her? 
Would  I ! 

We  forded  a  river  and  struck  into  the  hills  where  we 
rode  through  beautiful  plantations,  where  pretty  cacao  trees 
grow  amidst  springing  young  papaias  that  flourish  like 
weeds  in  Upolu,  fruiting  in  such  rank  abundance  that  they 
are  rated  as  food  only  for  pigs  and  cattle.  No  self-re- 
specting hotel  keeper  would  dare  place  papaias — or  paw- 
paws, or  mummy-apples,  as  they  are  variously  called — on  his 
table.  Pig-food  indeed !  Why,  the  lack  of  it  and  our  fond- 
ness for  it,  gave  us  a  distinct  and  somewhat  discomfiting  de- 
sire to  be  pigs. — Which  we  became,  to  the  extent  of  begging 
pridelessly  for  papaia  three  times  a  day. 

We  passed  small  piled  heaps  of  the  cocoa  in  its  crimson- 
pink  shell,  and  it  tastes  not  badly,  even  in  its  crude  state. 
Five  kinds  of  rubber  trees  are  planted  here,  also.  And  oh ! 
the  woods  of  Upolu !  They  are  so  strange,  so  unreal,  with  the 
tortured  trunks  of  the  Malili  trees  that  spread  out  toward  the 
ground  in  board-like  upright  slabs  all  around,  and  the  native 


266  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

banyans  that  grow  very  high  before  they  reach  out  feelers 
toward  earth.  Umbrageous  forest  it  is,  on  the  one  hand,  so 
entirely  overspread  with  leafy  creepers  that  one  can  but 
think  of  painted  stage  scenery ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  there 
are  woods  gladsome  with  hibiscus  and  papaia,  fau  and  climb- 
ing palm  and  fern — until  you  are  breathless  at  the  contrast 
of  grotesque  Dorean  glooms  so  near  by. 

Messrs.  Harman  and  Radford  entertained  us  for  lunch  on 
the  Upola  Company's  Plantation,  of  which  they  are  mana- 
gers. They  impressed  us  as  weirdly  unhealthy  and  spir- 
itless, until  we  came  to  learn  that  only  the  week  previous 
both  had  been  beset,  on  different  parts  of  the  plantation, 
by  vicious  Chinese  coolies  who  beat  and  jumped  upon 
them,  Mr.  Radford  having  several  ribs  broken.  "Gaw' 
f'damee,"  blustered  Roberts,  flicking  a  topboot  violently 
with  his  crop  to  hide  his  emotions  at  sight  of  his  battered 
friend.  And  Radford  smiled  as  little  wearily  as  possible  in 
appreciation  of  the  other's  feeling,  for  it  hurt  him  even  to 
smile.  Such  a  sad-faced  man;  and  aside  from  his  present 
condition,  I  knew  he  was  homesick.  "Just  to  walk  along 
Piccadilly  again/'  he  sighed,  half -smiling  at  his  triteness, 
his  well-bred  thin  face  turned  wistfully  toward  the  open 
window;  and  once,  when  the  rest  were  out  inspecting  the 
cocoa-dryer,  we  fell  to  quoting  Kipling,  and  he  became  an- 
other man,  and  they  found  him  laughing  and  talking  volubly 
on  their  return.  England's  men — where  does  one  not  meet 
them!  Here  a  younger  son;  there  a  cockney;  now  a  "gen- 
tleman adventurer,"  and  then  a  "gentleman  ranker."  But 
oh!  the  "Broken  Men" — they  are  the  saddest.  However, 
not  one  of  the  men  we  met  to-day  would  answer  to  any  of 
these.  Radford  is  an  English  gentleman,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  his  house-mate,  as  gentle,  is  from  Australia. 

I  found  it  very  interesting,  sitting  with  all  these  men  at 
the  lunch  table  set  on  a  second-story  porch  and  served  by  a 
Chinese  boy,  listening  to  their  stories,  which  were  largely 
about  horses — while  our  own  horses  rolled  and  fed  on  the 
grass  below.  The  ride  back  to  Apia  was  by  another  way, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  267 

lying  through  more  wonderful  woods  high-trailing  their 
mantles  of  creepers,  and  underfoot  grassy,  fern-brushed 
paths.  We  ended  with  a  good  gallop  into  town,  more  than 
ever  grateful  for  the  boon  of  fine  horses  to  ride. 


Monday,  May  11,  1908. 

There  are  some  odd  types  here  in  the  hotel,  from  good 
Mr.  Falstaff  down  to  the  funny  slim  Chinaman,  Ah  Chong, 
who  slants  around  the  room  in  stiff  little  bumps  when  any 
one  asks,  " Dance,  Ah  Chong,  dance  for  me."  There's  an 
ex-sea-captain  from  New  England,  who  is  teased  a  great  deal. 
He  is  only  eighty -five  or  so,  and  has  a  new  wife  and  a  two- 
months  girl  baby.  The  old  man  was  at  about  the  end  of  his 
patience  with  badgering  one  day  at  dinner,  when  I  asked 
him,  in  a  most  respectful  tone,  particularly  why  he  lived  in 
Samoa.  "To  raise  children,"  he  growled  back;  and  I  sub- 
sided, well  informed.  But  he  is  proud  to  talk  about  his  fine, 
modern  home  and  his  family.  "My  children  speak  four  or 
five  languages,  when  they  get  ready;  but  they  don't  always 
get  ready,"  he  boasted  with  inflated  chest;  " — though  I 
don't  know  as  it's  anybody's  business,"  he  finished  lamely, 
with  a  malevolent  glare  from  under  his  beetling  eyebrows, 
remembering  that  he  was  still  put  out  over  the  badgering, 
and  also  that  a  New  Englander  just  must  be  contrary.  But 
he  is  a  most  kindly  soul,  beneath  the  husky  shell  of  him. 

Then  there  is  the  stony-eyed,  pink-skinned,  brassy  young 
Colonial  whose  papa  is  a  wealthy  canner  in  New  Zealand, 
everybody  knows,  because  the  son  has  said  so.  He  walked 
up  to  Jack  the  first  time  he  saw  him,  asked  rudely  whence  he 
came  and  whither  bound,  from  what  ship  he  had  come 
ashore.  And,  learning  at  the  table  that  Jack  was  off  the 
Snark,  he  has  since  spent  his  leisure  moments  gazing  fixedly 
over  a  cuff-high  collar,  plainly  wondering  how  that  soft- 
shirted,  curly-headed  boy  came  into  possession  of  a  name  and 
a  yacht  anyway.  He  means  well — every  one  means  well; 
but  birth  and  nature  are  terribly  against  letting  it  show. 


268  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chappere,  from  Auckland,  are  delightful, 
and  I  follow  the  making  of  their  accent  with  my  eyes  and 
unconsciously  moving  lips.  Of  course,  I  am  quite  aware 
that  they  probably  regard  my  Americanese  as  just  as  re- 
markable. Last  night,  after  dinner  at  the  Roberts',  we 
came  home  and  went  swimming  with  the  Chapperes  off  a 
little  boat-pier  at  the  hotel.  He  is  travelling  for  a  biscuit 
company  and  knows  something  about  other  commodities  than 
crackers — jewels  for  instance.  We  began  discussing  Aus- 
tralian opals,  and  he  brought  out  a  little  hemisphere  of  fire 
and  dew  that  made  us  catch  our  breaths  at  the  living  colour. 
Jack  was  so  interested  in  the  opal  that  Mr.  Chappere  pre- 
sented me  with  it.  I  thought  I  saw  his  wife  check  a  fall- 
ing face;  so  I  produced  my  little  handful  of  bright  Paumo- 
tan  pearls  (added  to  in  Tahiti),  easily  discovered,  without 
asking,  which  they  both  liked  best,  and  so  managed  to  even 
the  obligation.  Every  little  while  I  take  out  my  box  in 
which  the  drop  of  blue  and  rose  flame  trembles  in  the  moon- 
light of  the  pearls. 

Jack  has  picked  up  some  green  cat-eyes,  and  some  grey 
ones,  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  combining  them  in  bizarre 
settings  when  we  reach  Batavia  and  the  goldsmiths.  Com- 
pare this  adventuresome  collecting  of  trinkets  with  buying 
in  the  conventional  fashion! 

Curios  are  high  in  Apia,  naturally,  it  being  on  the  "  tour- 
ist route,"  the  basket  and  tapa  and  mat  makers  catering 
to  the  steamer  trade.  The  Samoan  fans  are  very  good,  much 
heavier,  firmer  and  more  useful  than  the  flimsy  Tahitian 
bamboo  ones.  There  is  a  great  variety,  and  we  are  told  that 
we  shall  do  well  on  Savaii,  where  the  natives  are  practically 
unspoiled  by  visitors. 

Tuesday,  May  12,  1908. 

Yesterday  we  took  the  ocean  drive  that  leads  past  the  me- 
morial monuments  of  the  heroes  of  1899 ;  and  we  also  came 
upon  the  remains  of  the  last  of  old  Samoan  war  canoes,  pro- 
tected under  a  long  shed.  It  is  a  double-canoe,  the  boats  of 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  269 

slightly  different  size  and  build,  and  must  have  been  an  im- 
posing sight  in  action  in  the  days  when  it  was  decorated 
and  manned.  Now  it  is  too  far  gone  to  allow  of  launching 
even  for  exhibition. 

The  American  Vice  Consul,  Mr.  Parkhouse,  had  invited 
us  to  dine  at  the  Roberts  Hotel,  to  meet  the  Acting  Gov- 
ernor, Dr.  Erich  Schultz.  We  also  found  Mr.  Moors  there 
when  we  arrived,  and  several  others,  among  them  Mr.  Mil- 
ler, editor  of  the  Apia  paper,  and  Dr.  Davis  and  his  beauti- 
ful Tongan  bride.  The  main  intellectual  excitement  of  the 
extremely  good  dinner  was  the  trying  to  convert  Mr.  Moors 
from  his  unguardedly  expressed  opinion  that  Kipling's 
poetry  is  "  jingle. "  He  soon  found  what  a  warm  nest  he 
was  in.  Roberts  rushed  from  the  room,  cursing  volubly,  re- 
turning breathless  and  gesticulatory  with  a  volume  from 
which,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  declaimed  "The  Broken 
Men. "  * '  Jingle,  is  it ! "  he  panted,  nervously  running  over 
the  thumbed  pages  for  "Gentleman  Rankers."  "Listen  to 
this :  'For  things  we  never  mention'  " — and  he  went  on,  his 
heart  in  his  voice,  fanning  the  air  with  his  free  hand  in  a 
professional  manner  that  made  us  wonder  if  the  stage  had 
claimed  him  at  some  period  in  his  varied  career.  Jack  read 
several  of  his  favourites,  and  I  tried  out  Mr.  Moors  with  the 
"L 'Envoi"  commencing,  "There's  a  whisper  down  the 
field."  The  worthy  Moors  laughed  his  unembarrassed  and 
spontaneous  laugh,  and  said  with  twinkling  eyes,  "Oh,  it's  all 
very  well,  I  know.  Tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  read  much 
Kipling — and  I'm  willing  to  admit  that  all  this  isn't  jingle. 
But  perhaps  I  don 't  care  for  poetry,  for  all  this  stuff  you  've 
read  doesn't  affect  me  in  the  least."  (Here  a  snort  from 
Roberts,  who  was  standing  before  a  large  print  of  "The 
Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft,"  glowingly  reading  me  the 
text.) 

And  then  the  Kipling  discussion  languished,  and  Dr. 
Schultz,  on  my  right,  got  the  folk  interested  in  questions  of 
Samoa.  By  ten,  much  in  need  of  sleep,  I  slipped  out,  and 
was  driven  back  to  the  hotel  in  Mr.  Parkhouse 's  trap.  It 


270  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  with  a  soft  warm  breeze, 
and  I  wondered  where  I  was,  speeding  along  this  strange 
water-front  with  a  savage  coachman,  my  little  boat-home 
rocking  in  the  harbour,  not  far  from  the  romantic  old  wreck, 
and,  to  the  west,  the  intermittent  glow  from  a  great  volcano 
painting  the  moonlight  lilac  of  the  sky. 

And  all  this  day  the  flags  have  been  at  half-mast,  on  land 
and  water,  for  the  little  daughter  of  a  local  photographer, 
who  died  last  night  very  suddenly  of  ptomaine  poisoning. 
Mr.  Easthope's  daugher  is  going  about  with  wet  eyes,  and 
there  were  tears  in  Rosa  Moors'  voice  when  she  talked  to  me 
over  the  telephone  about  the  trip  to  Papase  'ea  this  afternoon, 
saying  she  must  return  in  time  for  the  funeral.  This  acci- 
dent will  make  us  more  than  ever  careful  on  the  Snark,  and 
more  than  ever  strict  with  the  galley  as  to  serving  any  stale 
food.  It  was  tinned  salmon  that  caused  the  death  of  this 
child. 

On  The  Fop  and  Emele  we  started  at  eleven,  Rosa  in  her 
cart  carrying  lunch,  and  accompanied  by  her  groom,  a  na- 
tive maid,  and  Miss  Caruthers,  daughter  of  Stevenson's  old 
friend.  It  was  beautiful  country  we  clawed  through,  which 
finally  became  so  steep  that  we  left  the  horses  and  went  on 
foot  to  the  famous  Sliding  Rock.  We  had  to  let  ourselves 
down  a  long  bank  to  get  to  it,  and  at  the  bottom  stood  be- 
side a  mountain  stream,  just  above  us  a  broad  waterfall  only 
a  few  feet  in  height,  and  below  us  the  flowing  thirty-foot 
precipice  over  which  we  were  invited  to  launch  our  precious 
persons,  feet  first.  I  was  very  brave  until  my  bathing-suit 
was  on  and  the  fateful  letting-go  moment  approached,  when 
I  found  all  kinds  of  excuses  for  delays;  but  after  watching 
the  groom  and  the  maid  go  down,  followed  by  Miss  Caru- 
thers, all  sitting  upright  with  their  hands  on  the  rock  be- 
side them,  I  took  my  place  with  the  bunch  and  looked  at 
Jack  sliding  to  his  disappearance  in  the  dark  deep  pool. 
He  swam  out  laughing  and  shaking  his  head,  and  sat  on  a 
warm  rock  a  long  time  jeering  at  me  to  screw  my  courage. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  271 

I  promised  Rosa  I  would  follow  her.  She  admitted  that  al- 
though she  had  shot  the  fall  hundreds  of  times,  she  always 
dreaded  it.  This  cheered  me  up,  and  I  waxed  boastful  over 
my  own  swimming-tank  exploits  of  slides  and  22-foot  jumps, 
long  dives  and  backward  dives — until  Rosa  went  down,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  make  good.  I  took  one  look  at  Jack's  odd 
expression,  half  of  incredulous  fear  that  I  might  fail  him, 
and  wiggled  to  the  descent.  It  was  successful,  despite  a 
bad  sidewise  start.  The  natives  were  much  amused  because 
I  put  cotton  in  my  nostrils  and  ears.  But  I  had  noticed 
the  backward  jerk  of  Jack's  head  when  he  struck  the  pool, 
and  knew  his  tubes  were  stinging  from  the  rush  of  water; 
and  I  have  not  forgotten  the  month  I  once  lay  on  my  back, 
as  a  result  of  high  jumps  with  unprotected  ears  and  nos- 
trils. Well,  I  did  it!  I  did  it!  And  they  say  there's  only 
one  other  place  in  the  world  where  I  could  do  it,  and  that  is 
on  the  Malay  Peninsula,  where  we  have  no  expectation  of 
going. 

Before  leaving  the  pool  we  girls  washed  our  hair,  rubbing 
lemons  into  it,  even  the  rind.  The  Samoan  girls  do  this  for 
its  softening  effect  and  also  for  the  delicate  perfume.  The 
hair  must  be  dried  as  quickly  as  possible,  however,  in  order 
that  the  scent  may  not  be  in  the  least  musty.  One  has  to 
work  with  speed  in  the  tropics,  on  account  of  the  deteriora- 
tion of  things.  My  hair  now  shakes  out  an  odour  like  or- 
ange blossoms. 

Wednesday,  May  13,  1908. 

Last  evening  Jack  delivered  his  lecture  "  Revolution "  at 
the  Central  Hotel,  and  it  provoked  a  discussion  that  lasted 
until  midnight.  Trust  the  German  every  time  for  knowing 
something  about  what  is  going  on  in  the  world  political  and 
social.  Jack  says  it  was  one  of  the  most  stimulating  audi- 
ences he  ever  had.  And  to-day  at  table,  the  guests  are  dis- 
cussing Socialism  and  plying  Jack  with  questions.  Very 
dissimilar  his  experience  in  Papeete,  when  he  spoke  under 
the  surveillance  of  the  chief  of  the  gendarmes,  in  a  native 


272  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Folies  Bergeres — the  property  owners,  under  the  compulsion 
of  the  local  authorities,  refusing  to  rent  him  a  hall. 

We  are  bound  for  Savaii  to-morrow,  and  this  afternoon 
Jack  and  I  were  crossing  and  recrossing  each  other's  tracks 
in  a  brief  buying-tour.  Unless  you  speak  German,  be 
warned  that  if  ever  you  go  to  Upolu  and  hear  ' '  The  German 
Firm,"  accept  the  name  as  a  matter  of  course,  lest  you  be 
called  upon  to  write  or  pronounce,  "  Haupt- Agent  ur 
Deutsche  Handels  und  Plantagen-Gesellschaft,  der  Siidsee- 
Inseln  zu  Hamburg." 

I  bought  some  shocking  lava-lavas  with  which  to  make  en- 
vious the  Snark's  crew,  one  in  particular,  in  wavy  stripes  of 
all  gaudy  colours  that  be,  causing  Rosa  to  gasp  when  I  shook 
it  out.  After  the  shopping,  we  drove  around  town  in  the 
sunset,  and  I  met  the  lawyer,  Mr.  Caruthers,  who  told  me 
many  things  about  Tusitala,  and  gave  me  a  picture  of  old 
"Jack,"  the  horse  Tusitala  used  to  ride.  It  is  now  in  Mr. 
Caruthers'  possession,  some  thirty  years  of  age,  spinning  out 
its  latter  days  in  pleasant  pastures.  Mr.  Moors  tells  us  that 
he  sold  the  horse  to  Stevenson  for  fifty  dollars.  But  this 
was  not  the  first  time  Moors  had  sold  old  Jack.  He 
originally  paid  fifty  dollars,  and  later  on,  being  offered  fifty 
dollars,  and  not  needing  the  horse,  accepted  the  price.  The 
chance  arose  to  recover  the  animal  at  the  same  figure,  fifty 
dollars,  and  it  again  became  Moors  *  property.  But  he  had 
got  into  the  habit  of  selling  Jack,  and  again  parted  with  him 
to  a  friend  for  the  consideration  of  fifty  dollars.  Not  long 
afterward,  the  friend,  owing  him  fifty  dollars  on  a  bet, 
Moors  accepted  the  worthy  horse  in  payment.  The  next 
and  last  sale  was  to  Stevenson,  for  fifty  dollars. 

We  have  not  seen  the  famous  old  high  chief  of  Upolu, 
Mata'afa;  but  this  afternoon  while  driving,  Rosa  pointed 
across  lagoons  and  low  hills  to  a  green  blowhole  in  the  side 
of  a  wooded  mountain,  and  told  me  that  Mata  'af a  has  a  very 
beautiful  native  place  there,  which  he  greatly  loves.  But  it 
happens  that  for  some  time  each  visit  he  has  made  there 
from  Apia  has  been  followed  by  sickness ;  therefore  the  old 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  273 

autocrat  has  decided  (like  Tuimanua)  that  he  has  an  aitu, 
and  has  eschewed  all  sojourning  in  his  favourite  fale.  And 
so  they  pass,  and  in  a  little  while  all  the  old  representatives 
of  true  Samoan  nobility  will  be  gone.  ' '  Drive  away  from  us 
sailing-gods,  lest  they  bring  disease  and  death, "  they  used 
to  say;  but  probably  now  only  the  ancient  fathers  of  the 
tribes  remember  the  proverb.  The  rest  are  glad  enough  to 
welcome  both  sailing-gods  and  steaming-gods,  for  they  mean 
money  in  exchange  for  goods  and  labour,  money  with  which 
to  replace  their  beautiful  siapos  with  cheap  manufactured 
stuff,  the  siapo  now  being  made  mostly  for  sale.  ' '  The  iron 
of  the  machine  has  eaten  into  the  soul  of  the  artisan/'  as 
Austin  Lewis  says. 

The  Samoans  have  been  a  very  superior  race,  with  cer- 
tain strict  ideas  of  morality.  The  old  taupon  system  is  an 
example  of  what  they  strove  for.  And  they  took  great  care 
that  there  should  be  no  intermarrying  among  close  relatives. 
Also,  it  does  not  come  within  our  knowledge  that  they  were 
ever  rapacious  cannibals.  A  morsel  of  a  notoriously  cruel 
enemy  was  not  to  be  snubbed,  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  participation  in  such  fare  carried  an  ethical  signifi- 
cance. 

They  are  an  altruistic  people.  In  their  language  there  is 
no  equivalent  for  the  word  poverty,  and  the  nearest  they 
can  come  to  expressing  the  idea  of  servant,  is  "one  who 
runs  an  errand  for  another." 

The  Samoans  once  flattened  the  noses  of  their  children  by 
frequent  pressures,  much  as  the  Hawaiian  mother  even  to- 
day is  continually  seen  moulding  the  fingers  of  her  babe  into 
taper  form ;  but  it  would  appear  that  the  Samoans  have  re- 
covered from  the  old  aversion  to  the  "canoe  noses"  of  the 
whites,  for  they  are  now  a  well-featured  race,  according  to 
our  biases.  Sometimes  I  weary  a  little  for  the  sight  of  a  fine 
nostril  in  an  otherwise  clearly  chiselled  face,  but  one  mustn  't 
be  too  particular ! 

They  have  a  fascinatingly  intricate  and  interesting  my- 
thology. The  very  name  Sa-Moa,  meaning  '  *  Sacred  to  Moa, ' ' 


274  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

a  heaven-born  ancestor,  gives  a  line  on  their  concepts.  But 
I  cannot  take  space  for  the  dead  in  this  essentially  living 
screed,  so  I  wish  you  would  read  G.  Turner's  Samoa,  a  book 
that  goes  exhaustively  into  the  lore  and  which  will  be  found 
anything  but  dull,  with  its  striking  parallels  to  the  my- 
thology of  many  a  presumably  enlightened  nation. 

It  is  not  all  beer  and  skittles  for  the  erring  ones  among 
these  Apians.  This  morning,  at  work,  a  strange  clanking 
arrested  us,  and  from  our  balcony  we  saw  a  procession  of 
convicts  dragging  their  chains  down  the  street.  They  were 
marked  with  black  disks  on  the  right  shoulder  blade  and 
left  breast  of  their  grimy  shirts.  Some  were  Samoans,  some 
' '  black  boys, ' '  the  universal  name  for  the  imported  labour 
from  darker  isles,  such  as  the  Solomons.  I  saw  one  guile- 
less-faced Chinaman,  and  wondered  what  he  had  done. 
That  reminds  me  of  another  celestial  employed  by  Falstaff. 
His  name  is  Jim,  and  he  is  small  and  trim  and  good  looking, 
with  heavy  eyebrows  drawn  into  a  slight  scowl.  He  is  just 
out  after  doing  eighteen  months  for  pilfering  from  Fal- 
staff's  cash  drawer;  but  the  proprietor  seems  to  think  there 
is  scant  danger  of  a  repetition. 

Bougainville,  seeing  the  Samoans  so  much  about  in  canoes, 
named  the  group  The  Isles  of  the  Navigators;  but  it  seems 
to  be  the  general  judgment  that  these  people  are  not  nearly 
such  good  sailors  as  many  another  race  of  the  South  Seas. 

We  came  away  from  our  last  visit  to  Mr.  Moors  with  arms 
full  of  books  about  the  Solomons,  New  Hebrides,  New 
Guinea,  and  other  countries  where  we  expect  to  touch.  The 
owner  takes  chances  of  losing  them  all  in  case  we  should  be 
wrecked.  Whenever  I  look  at  these  books,  I  get  to  dreaming 
of  the  real  raw  edge  of  earth  we  are  so  soon  to  explore. 

One  pretty  experience  we  have  had  in  Apia — whenever 
we  go  on  the  street  at  night,  an  escort  of  brown  small  fry 
springs  up  and  sees  us  to  our  destination.  The  noiseless 
forms  walk  close  behind  in  the  dust,  sometimes  one  or  two 
coming  abreast.  Nothing  is  said,  and  when  we  arrive,  all 
disappear  softly.  They  seem  to  expect  nothing,  and  display 


Samoan  Fale 


Bush  Woman,  Tana 


Taupous,  Samoa 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  275 

little  curiosity.  "Wouldn't  it  be  sweet  to  discover  that  this 
is  some  ceremonial  of  hospitality  connected  with  the 
stranger  in  their  land !  I  am  reminded  of  days  gone  by,  in 
Berkeley,  when,  walking  with  my  escort  on  fair  nights  to 
and  from  the  college  dances,  a  majestic  St.  Bernard  on  many 
occasions  padded  softly  alongside.  If  he  attended  us  to  the 
Gymnasium,  he  failed  not  to  make  the  round  trip.  Caresses 
he  received,  but  returned  none.  Perhaps  his  life  was  too 
idle,  in  our  summer  land,  stirring  in  him  old  instincts  of  pro- 
tection. To  whom  he  belonged  I  never  learned. 


At  sea,  between  Upolu  and  Savaii,  Samoa, 
Thursday,  May  14,  1908. 

"We  have  just  passed  through  our  worst  thunder  squall, 
the  most  terrifying  thunder  I  ever  heard,  even  on  thunder- 
ous old  Mt.  Desert  Island.  It  was  overwhelming,  the 
silken-blue  suffusion  of  the  lightning,  followed  by  frightful 
crashing  of  rended  elements.  This  sort  of  display  is  very  in- 
teresting for  a  while,  especially  when  one  is  within  several 
feet  of  a  thousand  gallons  of  inflammable  gas-engine  fuel,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  tank  of  kerosene  and  two  tanks  of  lubricat- 
ing oil,  as  well  as  15,000  rounds  of  ammunition.  But  one 
quickly  tires  of  the  fireworks,  the  uncertainty  and  the  racket, 
and  longs  for  even  a  dead  calm.  We  got  it — the  deadest  of 
dead  calms,  and  the  shortest,  broken  like  a  flash  by  a  double- 
squall  smiting  from  opposite  directions,  like  one  I  have  de- 
scribed farther  back.  Now,  as  I  write,  the  clouds  are  lift- 
ing and  breaking  before  us,  disclosing  a  nearer  view  of  Sa- 
vaii— a  huge  squat  shape,  warted  with  volcanoes.  And  from 
one  living  crater,  like  some  ceaseless  humour  flows  a  stream 
of  red  lava,  the  venous  blood  of  the  squat  and  knobby  shape. 
Already  we  can  see  very  distinctly  the  wind-slanted  columns 
of  steam  rising  from  where  the  hot  lava  meets  the  sea. 
Henry  is  much  excited,  for  the  last  time  he  visited  Savaii 
there  was  but  one  column. 

We  left  Apia  yesterday  under  power,  since  the  wind,  which 


276  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

has  been  very  capricious  the  past  few  days,  had  played  out 
altogether.  We  dipped  our  flag  to  Mr.  Young,  who  was  com- 
ing in  from  Manua,  but  he  was  too  busy  keeping  his  schooner 
off  the  reef  to  bother  about  flags,  and  waved  an  arm  in- 
stead. Our  engine  purred  away  until  we  had  cleared  the 
long  point,  Falooloo ;  then  we  let  the  Snark  roll  in  a  silvery 
calm,  with  just  enough  air  to  keep  on  the  course.  The  silver 
moon  rose  astern  from  the  silvery  sea,  half-enveloped  in 
frosted-silver  clouds,  and  from  time  to  time  heat  lightning 
flushed  the  low  clouds  on  the  horizon.  We  slept  on  deck, 
our  lighthouse  a  volcano;  and  frequently  Jack  and  I  raised 
our  heads  to  look  at  the  pillar  of  flame  rising  to  the  brood- 
ing clouds  and  illuminating  their  under  sides  in  long  wastes 
of  fiery  light.  To-day  it  is  a  pillar  of  smoke  that  shows  us 
the  way.  It  is  so  wonderful,  so  unbelievable — sailing  in  a 
white-speck  boat  in  the  tropic  sea,  steering  by  a  volcano. 

Our  decks  are  well  stocked  with  native  kai-kai,  much  of 
it  brought  by  the  friends  who  came  aboard  to  see  us  off ;  and 
a  brown  and  yellow  turtle  that  must  weigh  over  a  hundred 
pounds,  lies  heavily  and  sadly  in  the  lee  scuppers.  If  we 
speak  to  him,  he  droops  his  eyelids  and  withdraws  his  head, 
but  displays  no  tendency  to  snap.  This  is  the  second  edible 
turtle  our  boys  caught  in  Apia ;  and  so  unusual  and  valuable 
is  such  a  prize,  that  the  turtles  had  to  be  watched  nights 
to  keep  natives  from  marauding  them  where  they  lay  in  the 
water  alongside  at  ropes'  ends. 

Mr.  Easthope's  daughter  brought  a  beautiful  siapo  and 
handsome  fans.  Eosa  Moors  came  over  the  side  with  basket- 
fuls  of  oranges  and  lemons  and  other  good  things,  arranged 
as  only  she,  artist  that  she  is,  can  arrange  everything. 
Charley  Roberts,  bursting  with  ill-concealed  grief  over  part- 
ing from  Jack,  smuggled  into  our  staterooms  some  fascina- 
ting long-necked  bottles  of  liquid  sunshine  from  France 
("Mere  trash,  my  dear  fellow,  mere  trash !"),  while  his 
1  '  Missis ' '  remembered  that  she  had  left  five  dozen  eggs  in  the 
launch.  And  there  were  " roses,  roses,  riotously,"  and  good 
wishes  by  the  bale,  and  farewells  between  people  who  may 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  277 

never  meet  again,  but  who  are  glad  of  having  met  that 
once.  For  the  Snark  is  a  ship  that  passes,  and  passes,  and 
keeps  on  passing,  the  round  world  around,  never  to  return. 
Why,  the  gleeful  winged  thing  doesn't  even  have  to  return 
to  ports  of  entry  to  clear,  what  of  her  yacht  license,  which, 
by  international  courtesy,  entitles  her  to  come  and  go  as  she 
pleases,  like  a  man-o'-war,  unbound  by  papers  of  any  kind 
save  her  Bill  of  Health. 

This  morning,  looking  back  with  the  glasses,  we  could 
faintly  make  out  Young's  schooner  at  anchor,  still  outside 
the  reef.  That  is  where  we  would  have  been  but  for  our  en- 
gine. All  our  heartbreaking  difficulties  with  the  engines 
fade  before  our  present  joy  in  them — propulsion,  interior 
lighting,  and  searchlight. 

This  whole  day  I  have  done  nothing  more  practically 
profitable  than  take  a  bath  in  the  violent  warm  rain  that 
fell  with  the  squalls;  and  the  profitableness  of  this  act  is,  I 
believe,  a  question  of  climate  and  open  to  individual  dis- 
pute. In  general  the  sea  has  been  too  rough  to  allow  of 
comfort  in  any  occupation.  Hunting  for  braces  to  offset  the 
rolls  is  about  all  one  can  do.  There  is  one  gratifying  cir- 
cumstance aboard — Ernest  is  missing — gone  to  Australia  on 
a  steamer.  Captain  Warren  ought  to  be  happy,  with  his  de- 
tested Frenchman  removed;  but  I  can  almost  believe  he 
misses  the  luxury  of  some  one  on  whom  to  vent  his  brilliant 
sarcasms.  Henry  does  not  look  as  if  it  would  be  healthful 
for  any  one  to  use  him  as  a  butt,  Tehei  is  our  brother,  and 
the  captain  has  an  inkling  that  we  do  not  care  to  lose  our 
Japanese  boys.  Poor  Captain  Warren — he  would  seem  to 
have  forgotten  how  ardently,  in  Tahiti,  he  wanted  to  re- 
habilitate his  reputation,  and  how  much  Jack  overlooked  of 
his  misconduct.  And  nowadays,  he  is  more  or  less  of  a 
blight  upon  the  gaiety  of  our  adventure. 

But  we  cannot  be  shadowed  very  much,  in  so  vivid  a  life. 
Think  of  sleeping  under  the  biggest  moon  ever  seen,  with  a 
great  sighing  leviathan  of  a  turtle  at  the  head  of  your  cot, 
and  an  active  volcano  for  guide-post.  Then  to  wake  in  the 


278  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

morning  to  a  sunrise  like  the  gates  of  Paradise,  with  a  flight 
of  golden  angels  in  between.  .  .  . 

The  water  is  flecked  with  ashes,  and  as  the  day  draws 
to  a  close  we  can  see  the  fearsome  glare  of  molten  lava 
that  plunges  over  the  rim  of  iron-bound  coast.  The  col- 
our is  lambent  rose  of  opal;  each  moment  the  wonder 
grows.  After  a  wintry-grey  sunset,  followed  by  coloured 
hazes  of  the  volcano  smoke,  we  are  coming  near  enough 
to  spy  the  actual  lava-falls  as  they  drop  heavy  plum- 
mets into  the  sea-wash.  Henry's  eyes  are  large  with  aston- 
ishment at  the  increase  of  the  flow,  and  he  and  Tehei  ex- 
claim sharply  at  intervals  as  some  augmented  cascade  of 
liquid  fire  explodes  in  the  breakers,  sending  up  rockets 
never  surpassed  by  man's  ingenuity.  We  are  all  exclaim- 
ing, for  that  matter.  The  volcano  is  classic  to-night,  the 
cone  showing  clearer,  the  smoke  rising  funnel-wise  to  a  great 
height,  now  and  then  blown  into  fantastic  spirals  by  the 
high  winds.  There  is  something  sinister  and  sullen  about 
the  glaring,  flaring,  unnatural  light.  The  water  alongside 
is  88°  Fahrenheit,  warmer  than  the  air,  which  is  oppressive 
with  fumes  of  sulphur.  We  are  now  only  half  a  mile  from 
the  hell  that  has  so  long  been  loosed  upon  the  ruined  land, 
and  are  beginning  to  realise  that  something  dreadful  is  en- 
acting before  us — something  exceptional,  not  yet  known  in 
Apia,  for  we  were  unwarned  of  such  magnitude  of  disaster. 
The  wind  holds,  and  we  are  able  to  skim  along  the  edge  of  the 
tremendous  spectacle,  each  long  black  land-point  divulging 
greater  devastation  of  liquid  fire.  Whole  plains  have  been 
licked  up,  the  red  flood  forcing  under  a  cooled  and 
blackened  crust,  and  only  emerging  at  the  brink  where  it 
writhes  and  twists  out  of  its  confines,  ever  hissing  into  the 
sea,  like  a  myriad  driven  serpents. 

To  put  on  paper  what  I  behold  is  like  painting  a  picture, 
and  I  am  no  artist ;  but  there  is  fascination  in  trying  to  share 
with  the  many  what  so  few  may  see.  And  now  it  is  grown 
too  dark  to  write,  and  I  shall  give  myself  up  entirely  to  this 
terrific  experience. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  279 

Aboard  the  Snark, 
Matautu  Bay,  Savaii,  German  Samoa, 

Saturday,  May  16,  1908. 

After  we  had  sailed  to  a  safe  distance  for  lying  off  and 
on  all  night,  the  calm  that  had  preceded  the  afternoon  thun- 
der squalls  returned  and  left  us  drifting.  I  had  a  good 
night  below,  deciding  that  the  universe  was  altogether  too 
light  and  bright  and  diverting  for  any  repose  on  deck. 
Daybreak  brought  lovely  new  colours,  and  a  transformation 
of  the  warty  monster  Savaii  into  a  colossal  milky  opal,  what 
of  the  delicate  tints  in  smoke  and  mist  that  obscured  its 
grim  ugliness.  When  the  veils  lifted,  we  made  use  of  a 
light  breeze  to  carry  us  back  near  the  scene  of  fireworks,  in 
order  to  take  pictures.  The  wind  gasped  out  suddenly,  Mar- 
tin tuned  up  the  "masheen,"  and  we  steamed  as  close  as  we 
dared  to  the  flowing  abomination  of  lava — the  living,  moving 
curse  that  had  come  upon  the  land.  Raising  our  eyes,  we 
saw  vast  forests  standing  stark  and  dead  upon  the  moun- 
tainsides, the  edge  of  the  blackened  coast  licked  up  with  red 
flames  from  the  water's  edge,  where  cascades  of  slow  resist- 
less lava  were  quenched  of  their  heat.  The  water  in  which 
we  sailed  was  a  venomous  yellow-green,  while  close  to  the 
lava  it  boiled  a  bright  yellow.  At  an  eighth  of  a  mile  we 
tested  the  flood,  and  it  went  up  to  90°,  10°  warmer  than 
the  thick  air  we  breathed,  shortly,  as  if  in  fear  of  a  pesti- 
lence. We  were  disappointed,  upon  closer  view  of  the 
stream  of  lava  that  sent  up  the  most  conspicuous  disturbance 
of  steam  and  smoke,  to  find  that  it  did  not  run  over  the  low 
cliff,  but  came  out  under  the  surface,  an  upper  crust  hav- 
ing already  formed.  But  there  was  ample  opportunity  in 
other  places  to  observe  the  real  red  stuff,  and  red  and  aw- 
ful it  showed  even  in  the  broad  sunshine,  trickling  or  drop- 
ping into  the  dancing  hot  surf  that  beat  loudly  against  the 
rocks.  This  present  eruption  is  overflowing  the  dead  lava 
of  1905,  from  the  same  crater;  but  three  years  before,  an- 
other peak  turned  loose  and  destroyed  a  fine  section  of  the 
country.  An  island  in  the  making!  And  we  can  see  it 
with  our  own  eyes! 


280  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

We  speculated  if  the  hot  water  would  kill  off  our  bar- 
nacles, and  whether  or  not  we  could  stand  warmer  baths  than 
the  sharks,  in  case  we  took  a  swim.  Jack  climbed  into  the 
suspended  launch,  taking  pictures,  while  we  throbbed  along 
the  shore,  passing  the  daylit  wonders  of  last  night,  on  and 
on,  every  turn  divulging  new  destruction  of  a  land  that  only 
yesterday  was  green  with  cocoanut  and  banana,  mango  and 
citron.  Then  we  came  where  we  must  avoid  the  reef  which 
protects  Matautu  Bay  from  the  east,  and  lost  our  nearer 
view  of  the  lava  fields.  But  we  could  see  that  the  conse- 
quences of  the  present  eruption  are  widespread,  and  as  we 
approached  Matautu,  our  glasses  showed  a  village  smoking 
by  the  water 's  edge  under  limp  and  ragged  cocoa  palms,  and 
Henry  cried  out  in  sorrow,  for  he  had  been  in  this  village. 

Jack  did  not  like  the  way  the  yacht  was  allowed  to  hug 
the  eastern  horn  of  the  reef  entrance,  but  did  not  interfere. 
Our  good  luck  was  to  make  through  safely,  and  we  found 
excellent  anchorage.  This  harbour  is  much  exposed  at  all 
seasons,  but  it  is  only  the  north  and  northwest  winds  one 
need  dread,  and  between  the  first  of  December  and  last  of 
March,  mariners  are  warned  from  visiting  Matautu. 

We  bore  various  letters  of  introduction  to  "Dick"  Wil- 
liams, Administrator  of  Savaii,  and  had  been  prepared  to 
find  him  ' '  a  bunch  o '  good  fun, ' '  which  seemed  to  be  the  en- 
thusiastic opinion  held  by  his  friends  in  Apia.  It  was  after 
three  when  Jack  and  I  started  with  Martin  for  shore,  Henry 
also  going  along.  No  boat  of  any  kind  had  come  out  to  us 
from  Fagamalo  village,  which  was  rather  surprising.  Little 
did  we  know  the  reason  that  kept  every  one  on  land.  Henry 
pointed  out  Mr.  Williams'  place,  and  we  picked  our  way 
over  the  shallows  of  the  reef,  avoiding  the  little  rips  of 
foam  where  the  water  broke  on  higher  coral.  The  colours 
were  lovely — I  can  never  get  over  the  enchantment  of  these 
coral  gardens  of  orange  and  blue,  brown  and  purple,  seen 
through  the  pea-green  water. 

The  Snark  anchored  near  the  middle  of  the  bay,  so  we  had 
some  distance  to  go,  and  when  we  began  conning  the  sandy 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  281 

beach  for  a  place  to  run  in  the  launch,  a  picture  out  of  Pick- 
wick came  towards  us  from  a  pretty  concrete  house,  and 
motioned  where  we  should  land.  The  launch  nosed  into 
soft  sand,  and  we  were  borne  ashore  by  native  policemen, 
who  had  donned  their  helmets  and  gilt-buttoned  khaki  coats 
for  the  occasion. 

We  promptly  fell  in  love  with  the  " bunch  o'  good  fun." 

"Come  on  in — the  'ava's  just  made,"  he  called  heartily, 
preceding  us  into  the  pretty  house  with  its  arched  corridors 
and  doorways.  After  we  had  drained  our  cocoanut  beak- 
ers, we  presented  our  letters.  Mr.  Williams  tossed  them  un- 
read on  the  table,  and  proceeded  to  be  very  hospitable  on  his 
own  account. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  how  I  am  situated,"  he  began. 
"Here's  this  big  house,  but  nobody  can  sleep  in  it  for  the 
dampness.  The  concrete  was  mixed  with  salt  water,  and  I 
don't  know  if  it's  ever  going  to  dry.  But  come  and  let  me 
show  you  where  I  sleep,"  leading  the  way  to  a  long  wooden 
structure  near  the  water.  "This  is  my  boat-house,  and  in 
this  end  is  my  room."  We  went  into  a  small  but  light  and 
airy  bedchamber  partitioned  off  from  the  boat,  and  he  con- 
tinued: "You  folks  move  right  in  here  and  be  comfortable. 
—No,  that's  all  right,  don't  you  worry.  I  can  sleep  in  a 
native  house — they  're  glad  to  help  me  out, ' '  he  insisted,  tug- 
ging away  at  a  beautiful  native-carved  fan  of  hard  wood 
that  defied  his  efforts  to  get  it  off  the  wall.  It  came  loose 
finally,  and  he  handed  it  to  me,  along  with  another  from  the 
table,  and  a  dainty  hair  ornament  of  the  same  carven  wood. 

Then  he  commenced  planning  trips.  ' '  Of  course  you  must 
go  to  the  volcano ;  and  to-morrow  morning  we  '11  drive  to  the 
next  village,  back  the  way  you  sailed.  It's  a  great  sight. 
The  lava  has  come  through  and  burned  most  of  the  houses, 
and  now  is  taking  a  new  turn  that's  going  to  finish  it. — In 
fact,  here  you've  got  your  launch,  and  we  can  run  up  there 
by  water  now,  and  see  the  lava  at  night." 

Before  we  knew  it  we  were  in  the  boat  again,  Jack  steer- 
ing, Martin  running  the  engine,  Henry  bulging  his  eyes  over 


282  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  rail  landward,  and  Mr.  Williams'  rotund  figure  standing 
forward  to  pilot.  And  mind  you — this  fatherly  soul  was 
trying  to  hide  from  us  a  deep  anxiety  for  his  people,  now 
being  driven  out  of  their  homes  faster  than  he  can  find 
shelter  for  them.  Small  wonder  that  no  friendly  canoes 
came  out  upon  our  arrival! 

It  was  a  new  experience  to  run  along  in  deep  water  close 
to  the  sand,  only  once  turning  out  for  a  shallow  spit,  and 
once  again  to  avoid  the  delta  of  a  little  river.  It  grew  dark 
rapidly,  and  we  wondered  how  we  would  be  able  to  get  back. 
Natives  kept  pace  alongshore;  and  when  we  approached  the 
end  of  the  sandy  beach,  beyond  which  was  the  forbidding 
coast  of  fire,  brown  boys  and  men  splashed  into  the  water 
and  carried  the  whole  boat  ashore  with  us  in  it — as  they  did 
the  first  white  men.  So  many  were  they,  and  so  curious, 
that  Mr.  Williams  thought  wiser  for  Henry  and  Martin  to 
stand  guard  lest  they  inadvertently  do  the  engine  harm. 

It  was  dazing,  the  nearness  and  light  of  the  dreadful  dis- 
turbance ;  and  as  we  trod  the  beach  pathway,  crowded  with 
sheltering  palms,  their  higher  fronds  tattered  and  crisped 
by  heat  and  fumes,  we  could  not  but  shrink  from  the  glare 
of  the  wicked  cone  that  was  laving  this  land.  It  is  mak- 
ing new  land — extending  the  confines  of  the  island,  to  be 
sure ;  but  how  many  hundreds  of  years  will  have  to  lapse 
before  palms  take  root  again  and  green  grass  clothes  the 
black  nakedness  of  plain  and  slope  and  shore? 

Eyes  smarting,  breath  coming  painfully,  we  walked  hand 
in  hand,  the  three  of  us,  past  deserted  houses,  not  yet  burned, 
and  then  turned  from  the  beach  and  made  our  way  through 
a  marshy  place,  criss-crossed  by  fallen  palms,  to  where  the 
ruin  was  slowly,  implacably  advancing.  And  then  I  saw, 
close  at  hand,  what  I  have  all  my  life  dreamed  of  beholding 
— living,  flowing  lava  from  the  heart  of  a  volcano,  sluggish, 
pushing,  sticky  stuff  that  forced  out  through  a  cooled  crust 
of  clinker,  like  rose-madder  from  a  tube — such  a  terrible, 
devastating  liquid,  growing  thicker  and  more  darkly  red, 
more  heavily  sluggish  as  we  watched,  under  the  cooling  of 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  283 

the  air.  Lava  follows  the  line  of  least  resistance,  of  course, 
which  in  this  case  is  the  marshy  land  near  the  river ;  and  we 
could  see  slow  lines  of  crimson  flowing  into  the  water,  which 
is  fast  going  up  in  steam — another  disaster  to  the  inhab- 
itants. We  shielded  our  faces  and  tried  to  get  some  of  the 
lava  on  sticks;  but  it  was  too  thick  by  now,  and  would  not 
adhere. 

The  blazing  core  of  the  crater  is  seven  miles  in  a  straight 
line  from  Matautu  Bay,  but  the  lava,  as  it  runs,  covers  a 
course  of  twice  that  distance.  Mr.  Williams  figures  that 
by  the  time  it  reaches  the  sea,  it  is  moving  about  five  yards 
a  minute. 

We  went  back  to  the  path,  and  continued  to  where  the 
main  flow  had  crossed.  It  was  glazed  over,  and  we  were 
able  to  step  on  it  with  assurance,  although  it  was  still  very 
warm.  We  picked  our  way  for  some  distance,  in  order  to 
gain  better  view  of  a  large  bight  of  the  sea  where  red  lava 
showed  in  a  continuous  cascade  along  the  shore. 

By  this  time  we  were  actually  shivering  in  a  breeze  that 
mercifully  broke  through  the  suffocating  shimmering  heat, 
and  were  glad  to  get  back  into  comparatively  pure  air.  We 
passed  a  large  two-story  frame  house  that  we  had  noticed 
when  sailing  by,  and  Mr.  Williams  told  us  it  had  been  locked 
up,  furnished  and  provisioned  as  it  was,  by  the  owner,  who 
was  absent. 

We  re-embarked  in  the  fitful  light  that  filtered  through 
the  jungle.  It  was  tense  work,  steering  in  the  murk;  but 
after  a  little  the  moon  rose  behind  us,  solemnly,  slowly, 
redly,  like  a  round  world  of  blood  wheeling  sadly  through 
the  rack  and  ruin  of  space.  Very  quiet  we  were,  overcome 
by  what  we  had  seen  and  were  seeing,  and  touched  by  the 
trouble  and  apprehension  of  this  man  who  has  the  care  and 
keeping  of  the  island  in  his  hand.  By  now  he  made  no  se- 
cret of  his  anxiety — how  could  he,  when  he  had  revealed 
the  problem  he  must  handle  ? 

No,  Apia  knew  nothing  of  the  seriousness  of  this  immedi- 
ate eruption,  its  sudden  accession ;  but  the  schooner  carrying 


284  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  news  must  have  passed  us  in  the  night,  from  what  Mr. 
Williams  said. 

"We  decided  to  rejoin  the  Snark,  as  it  was  too  late  to 
turn  Mr.  Williams  out  of  his  quarters,  and  we  were  set 
against  this  anyway.  It  was  nearly  nine  when  we  climbed 
aboard,  and  there  was  only  some  tinned  corn  and  boiled  taro 
left  from  supper,  as  they  had  given  us  up.  So  I  told 
Wada  to  make  a  little  fire  and  scramble  eggs  with  mush- 
rooms, for  we  were  famished.  Later,  I  heard  the  captain 
grumble  to  Martin:  "Say — you  had  a  pretty  nice  supper, 
didn't  you? — Pity  I  can't  get  in  on  some  of  the  good 
things!'' — And  he  had  had  the  same  dish  the  day  before, 
and  always  has  the  same  fare  we  do,  as  he  takes  his  meals 
with  us. 

.  .  .  The  men  are  playing  poker  in  the  cockpit,  and  I 
have  come  up  for  a  breath.  There  are  several  fish  on  deck 
aft,  glistening  in  the  now  brilliant  moonlight.  Our  de- 
lighted kanakas  caught  them  over-stern  early  in  the  even- 
ing, and  pronounced  a  silver  disk-shaped  one  "maitai 
kaikai ' ' ;  but  over  a  large  bright-red  fish  they  wagged  their 
dusky  heads.  In  Tahiti  it  is  a  poisonous  fish,  and  in  Sa- 
moa is  supposed  to  be  harmless,  according  to  Henry.  I  told 
him  he  would  better  try  it  before  the  rest  of  us,  if  he  felt 
so  sure  it  is  innocuous  in  Samoa.  Whereupon  he  showed  a 
smileful  of  very  white  teeth  and  said,  "All  right — I  eat." 

This  close  view  of  the  ruddy  volcano  is  very  impressive. 
It  is  a  lesser  peak,  in  the  side  of  a  mountain  over  5000  feet 
high  called  Pule,  meaning  power,  master.  The  crater  was 
about  3000  feet  at  the  first  modern  eruption  three  years 
ago;  but  Mr.  Williams  avers  it  has  broken  down  at  least 
a  thousand  feet.  The  overflow  does  not  now  come  from  the 
lip,  but  breaks  out  below — no  one  knows  just  where,  because 
most  of  the  issue  makes  its  way  under  the  coating  of  in- 
cinerated earth  which  so  quickly  skins  over. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  285 

Matautu,  Savaii,  Samoa, 
Sunday,  May  17,  1908. 

Before  we  had  finished  breakfast  on  deck,  a  boat  arrived 
with  a  gift  of  flowers  from  the  Administrator.  They  were 
ceremoniously  presented  by  one  of  the  khaki-coated  fita- 
fitas,  and  were  folded  loosely  into  a  green  plaited  cocoanut 
frond — creamy  blumerias,  scarlet  double  hibiscus,  and  a 
fragrant  fluffy  mass  of  tiny  blossoms  and  grasses  and  ferns. 
Now  think  how  sweet  a  thing  for  a  busy,  worried  man  to 
do!  I  trimmed  my  big  Cook  Island  hat  with  hibiscus,  be- 
fore going  ashore,  and  told  Mr.  Williams  that  it  was  a  shame 
under  heaven  for  some  right  woman  to  go  lonely  for  such  a 
husband.  He  has  the  kindest,  gentlest  ways — and  an  eye  for 
a  pretty  girl,  too;  but — ''Bless  me — what  would  a  wife- 
woman  do  here?"  he  girded.  "Women  like  luxuries,  and 
society,  and  diversion — what! — If  a  woman  loved  me,  she 
would  be  happy  here?  Yes — well,  well;  but  where  is  the 
woman  to  love  me  ? ' '  .  .  .  And  a  little  later :  * '  Besides,  my 
children  need  me.  They're  all  my  children,  these  men  and 
women  and  young  folk.  They  call  me  Father,  and  Papa 
Williams — yes,  they  do!  And  when  they  are  naughty  and 
are  brought  before  me  I  stand  them  up  and  talk  to  them  till 
I  bring  the  tears  to  their  eyes."  He  chuckled  lovably  at 
some  remembrance,  and  in  answer  to  a  question  went  on: 
' '  How  do  I  punish  them  ?  Why,  I  say,  '  Father,  do  you  call 
me?  Now  what  kind  of  children  are  you  to  act  this  way 
toward  your  father  who  loves  you?' — Say,  they're  like 
lambs.  They  nearly  die  of  shame  and  contrition.  I  rule 
them  by  love — I  do!  I  have  never  struck  a  man  of  them 
since  I've  been  in  this  position.  But  I  had  occasion  to  do  it 
long  ago,  two  or  three  times  only  (I've  been  here  twenty- 
four  years,  you  know).  They  have  to  realise  that  a  man 
is  strong,  if  he's  going  to  get  any  respect  out  of  them. 
Yes,  I  struck  them  two  or  three  times  long  ago,  and  I  did 
it  well.  They  know  I  am  strong,  and  they  respect  me.  But 
I  rule  by  love — I  rule  them  by  love."  He  was  silent  for  a 
minute,  and  no  human  being  could  doubt  his  next  words : 


286  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

"And  they  love  me,  in  their  way — not  very  deep,  it's  not 
in  them;  but  it's  lots  of  comfort  to  me.  And  they  know  I 
care  for  them.  I've  proved  it  to  them  before,  in  different 
ways,  and  I'm  proving  it  now.  I  want  like  everything  to 
take  a  trip  with  you  folks,  pilot  you  around  the  island — 
we'd  have  a  great  time.  But  I  can't  leave,  with  this  sure 
destruction  coming  upon  their  houses.  They  would  lose 
heart,  and  get  into  a  panic.  It  would  be  quite  unexpected 
by  them  if  I  should  leave  at  such  a  time.  I  rule  them  by 
love.  Why,  think!  there  are  thirteen  thousand  people  on 
Savaii,  and  not  one  prisoner  among  them  in  the  lot. ' ' 

He  beamed  broadly  at  thought  of  this  proof  of  his  suc- 
cessful administration.  When  he  passes  a  humble  woman 
of  the  common  people,  he  says,  "Talofa  lava,  ta  maitai!" 
which  means,  "Much  love  to  you,  lady."  And  the  "ta 
maitai,"  lady,  brings  the  pleasure  into  her  eyes.  The  vil- 
lage Talking  Man  lowers  his  umbrella  in  respectful  courtesy 
to  the  Administrator.  And  the  act  is  without  servility. 

"I  haven't  even  looked  at  those  letters  you  brought,"  he 
said.  "Say — I  never  read  letters  of  introduction,  until 
folks  have  left.  Letters  don't  make  any  difference  to  me — 
I  don't  want  them  to.  I  want  to  treat  folks  just  the  same 
as  if  they  hadn't  any  recommendation,"  he  twinkled. 
Then,  with  one  of  his  irresistible  gurgles:  "I  never  had 
but  one  unwelcome  guest.  He  made  himself  unwelcome. 
Never  mind  how.  But  I  told  him  the  second  day  that  it 
would  be  much  better  for  us  to  part  right  then  than  later. 
And  he  took  the  hint,  and  went.  He's  the  only  one  we  ever 
turned  away,  isn't  he,  Barts?"  This  to  the  tall  trader  with 
whom  Pa  Williams  takes  his  meals.  Mr.  Barts  acquiesced, 
and  both  men  laughed  reminiscently. 

Mr.  Barts'  cottage  has  several  cosy  rooms,  and  he  turned 
over  his  large  bedroom  to  us,  taking  a  smaller  one  for  himself, 
so  that  the  older  man  is  not  turned  out  of  his  boat-house, 
after  all.  Every  one  seems  satisfied,  and  we  certainly  are. 
Mr.  Barts  is  an  athletic,  fine-looking  German,  with  courte- 
ous manners,  and  quiet  hospitality.  Meals  are  served  out- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  287 

side  on  the  porch,  by  a  Nine  Island  cook,  whom  Mr.  Barts 
oversees  with  a  househusbandly  eye.  Everything  comes  out 
of  cans — all  fresh  green  stuffs  are  ruined  by  sulphur  fumes 
from  the  volcano,  and  we  are  learning  new  tinned  delicacies. 

To-day  we  drove  to  the  deserted  village,  behind  a  couple 
of  gasping  horses  that  became  so  uneasy  with  the  heat  and 
foulness  of  air  that  they  had  to  be  held  when  we  left  the  rigs 
where  lava  had  terminated  the  road.  Retracing  our  last 
night's  steps,  we  found  that  the  lava  had  steadily  advanced, 
burning  several  native  houses.  The  fine  frame  one  was  as 
yet  untouched,  but  the  low  wall  of  lava  was  almost  up  to  it. 
Father  Williams  called  to  me  to  keep  from  under  the  cocoa- 
nuts,  which  were  drooping  perilously  in  the  ravaging  heat. 
The  relentless  molten  rock  surrounds  and  eats  out  their 
globular  bases,  and  the  fair  and  stately  boles  fall  only  to 
warp  and  scorch  on  the  unsympathetic  new  surface  of  the 
earth. 

It  was  a  fascinating  but  doleful  scene.  Looking  toward 
the  mountain  we  saw  only  the  blasted  life  of  the  jungle, 
"the  wilderness  of  birds,  the  wilderness  of  God,"  the  Chris- 
tian natives  say — dead,  quite  dead;  and  near  at  hand,  in  a 
little  stone  church,  the  people  prayed  for  protection  from 
the  slow  sure  fate  that  was  encroaching  upon  their  happy 
groves  and  homes,  now  only  a  few  yards  away  from  the 
house  of  praise.  Papa  Williams  looked  sadly  out  of  his 
Irish  blue  eyes  at  the  pretty  church,  then  at  the  ugly  black 
bank  inching  over  the  green  sward,  urged  from  within  by 
red  and  living  force,  and  remarked  dryly: 

"I'll  bet  on  the  lava." 

We  stepped  warily  over  the  hot  and  brittle  substance 
that  had  covered  the  ground  we  walked  upon  the  night 
before,  and  I  was  in  some  trepidation  lest  my  linen  petticoats 
flame  up  from  the  fiery  blowholes  and  crevices.  We  saw 
nature's  cruel  manufacture  of  tree-moulds — such  as  they 
show  on  the  slopes  of  Mauna  Kea  in  Hawaii — the  mould  left 
in  the  earth  by  the  bases  of  trees  burned  in  the  quickly  cool- 
ing lava.  We  peered  into  little  hell-holes  of  vicious  white 


288  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

heat  that  showed  the  sort  of  strata  over  which  we  were 
treading.  "Step  on  the  smooth,  curling,  molasses-like 
stuff,"  we  were  advised — the  pahoehoe  lava  of  Hawaii. 

Last,  we  followed  over  a  black  and  shining  field  that 
stretched  seven  miles  before  us — the  flow  of  1905,  much  of 
it  now  being  re-flowed  over.  Three  years  ago  this  August 
it  was  seven  miles  of  almost  continuous  village — grassy 
houses  and  nodding  palms.  This  intense  jetty  blackness  is 
shocking  to  the  senses,  used  as  we  have  been  to  the  bright 
slopes  of  other  islands — even  in  Hawaii,  the  newer  volcanic 
reaches  are  brown  or  dull  red.  Perhaps  the  most  tragically 
impressive  feature  of  all  was  a  family  graveyard  in  a  patch 
of  green  but  wilting  grass.  The  mounds  are  made  of  coral- 
lime  plaster  of  pinkish-tan  hue,  and  the  lava,  by  some  freak, 
has  piled  up  many  feet  on  all  sides,  leaving  several  of  the 
tombs  untouched,  while  others  are  pushed  against  and 
cracked.  We  had  to  descend  warm  and  brittle  walls  to 
reach  the  green  oasis  of  the  dead  with  its  wrecked  graves. 
The  lime  house  of  the  family  is  not  far  off — what  is  left  of 
it;  for  the  lava  set  fire  to  the  woodwork,  and  did  away 
with  the  roof,  leaving  only  the  walls,  with  baffled  lava  piled 
up  twelve  feet  all  around.  In  fact,  we  stood  above  and 
looked  down  into  the  open  interior.  The  lava  had  been  too 
sluggish  to  force  into  window-spaces  or  doors.  We  came  to 
a  church  that  had  been  burned — a  deserted  sanctuary  in 
which  a  native  had  begun  to  build  his  bamboo  house,  which 
was  scorched  but  still  standing. 

Our  horses  we  found  breathing  hard  with  nervousness 
and  sulphur,  and  as  we  drove  home  Mr.  Williams  talked 
about  his  life  in  Savaii  and  his  association  with  the  people. 

"Do  you  see  this  road?"  he  said,  flicking  his  whip  in  the 
fine  coral  powder.  "It's  a  fine  road  anywhere,  a  bicycle 
road,  and  it  extended  twelve  miles,  where  now  is  the  lava. — 
But  road-building  in  Samoa  has  its  comical  side  as  well  as 
its  serious  side.  The  natives  don't  see  the  comical  part,  and 
it's  my  serious  duty  not  to  let  them  see  that  I  think  there's 
anything  funny  or  unusual  in  their  practices.  It  takes  tact 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  289 

—but  tact  is  merely  sympathy,  after  all,  and  they  know  I 
love  them.  That's  the  way  I  rule  them,  you  see."  (Would 
that  all  rulers  could  earn  this  continuous  reflection!) 
"When  I  commenced  getting  the  roads  in  order,"  he  went 
on,  "I  would  lay  my  course,  as  the  sailors  say,  and  set  the 
men  to  work.  All  at  once  everything  would  come  to  a  stand- 
still, and  I  would  be  called  upon  by  the  workmen,  with  some 
friend  in  tow:  'My  father  (or  my  mother,  or  my  mother-in- 
law,  or  my  first  wife's  daughter  by  her  fifth  husband)  is 
buried  where  the  road  is  digging.  Can  you  not  turn  aside  ? ' 
And  bless  their  souls,  I  build  around  the  reverend  grave.  I 
don't  care  if  the  road  is  as  crooked  as  a  cow's  horn — we're 
not  going  to  run  a  tramway  here,  and  it  doesn't  hurt  any 
of  us  to  let  them  have  their  way." 

I  recalled  some  curious  things  about  Samoan  burials,  al- 
though I  don 't  know  if  any  of  the  old  customs  still  prevail ; 
but  there  was  a  time  when  corpses  were  embalmed  and 
exposed  for  months  near  the  mourners'  dwellings.  Quite 
the  contrary  of  the  Egyptian  practice,  Samoan  embalming 
was  done  mainly  by  women.  One  particular  family  of  chief- 
women  would  be  proficient  in  the  art,  and  do  all  the  embalm- 
ing for  the  community — or  at  least  for  those  of  rank.  There 
seems  to  have  been  little  superstition  connected  with  keeping 
the  dead  unburied.  It  was  done  more  out  of  respect  and 
affection,  to  have  the  deceased  near  to  those  dear  in  life. 
When  a  body  was  eventually  buried,  however,  it  was  laid 
in  a  grave  about  four  feet  deep,  spread  with  mats,  and  pro- 
vided with  a  raised  bamboo  head-rest.  Now  this  was  not 
entirely  for  the  comfort  of  the  departed  on  his  heavenward 
journey,  as  is  the  case  with  the  North  ^American  Indian  and 
many  another  people,  but  for  the  very  sanitary  reason  that 
the  living  feared  contamination  from  the  dead  person's  be- 
longings, preferring  to  forego  them  rather  than  take  risks. 

"We'll  go  in  here  and  have  some  'ava,"  Papa  Williams 
broke  in  upon  my  mortuary  reverie;  and  we  crossed  the 
lovely  river  and  turned  into  a  group  of  fine  thatched  houses 
still  unharmed.  We  bent  low  to  enter  a  splendid  fale,  and 


290  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

mats  were  pulled  down  from  the  polished  beams  and 
spread  for  us  on  the  tinkling  white  coral  floor.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  household  took  their  official  positions  about  the 
interior,  for  it  is  a  great  matter  in  just  what  relation  to 
certain  central  pillars  this  or  that  personage  disposes  him- 
or  herself. 

After  a  smiling  and  bowing  period  broken  by  Father 
Williams'  jokes  in  the  native  tongue,  and  the  responsive 
giggles  of  the  girls,  he  suggested  the  'ava.  It  was  made 
by  two  young  taupous,  she  of  this  village  and  the  other 
from  the  newly  burned  district.  The  fales  of  Fagamalo 
are  crowded  with  refugees,  four  hundred  having  poured  in 
since  Wednesday.  The  Administrator  has  had  to  provide 
domiciles  for  fourteen  hundred  since  August  14,  1905.  The 
people  spend  most  of  their  time  praying  and  singing  in  the 
churches,  trying  to  avert  further  disaster,  and  the  older 
folk  are  wofully  cast  down  over  the  erasure  of  old  land- 
marks and  traditional  spots.  The  younger  ones  are  more 
cheerful — they  find  novelty  living  in  new  houses;  but  there 
is  a  shadow  of  soberness  over  them,  and  no  dancing  is  per- 
mitted. 

Following  lunch,  we  had  a  peep  at  the  Administrator's 
38-foot  lifeboat  in  the  shed,  and  listened  to  how  one  time 
he  sailed  it  back  from  Apia  in  six  and  a  half  hours — forty- 
six  sea  miles.  And  he  told  us  about  the  twelve-foot  tidal 
wave  of  last  October  that  made  them  all  rush  out  and  cut 
loose  their  horses  when. the  wall  of  water  was  seen  coming, 
which  raised  a  400-gallon  tank  full  of  rainwater  three  feet 
onto  another  platform,  without  straining  a  hoop.  Savaii 
would  seem  to  be  a  stage  for  Nature's  jugglery. 

We  visited  the  office  in  the  pretty  house  of  undried  walls, 
and  drank  'ava  and  'ava,  and  then  'ava  and  'ava  again, 
made  by  any  chance  passing  maiden  called  in  by  Father 
Williams,  a  charming  chief  custom  of  Samoa.  To-day,  the 
girls  happened  to  be  from  the  latest  burned  village,  and  they 
were  only  too  glad  of  a  little  diversion.  In  the  serving  of 
the  'ava,  a  young  beau,  prompted  by  Mr.  Williams,  an- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  291 

nounced  each  receiver  of  the  cup  in  turn,  and  was  obeyed  by 
the  taupou.  "  'The  man  who  has  no  wife,'  he  says," 
chuckled  our  host,  as  the  calabash  was  wafted  to  Mr.  Barts. 
And  when  Martin's  portion  was  held  poised  in  the  girl's 
brown  hand,  "  'Boss  of  the  fire,'"  interpreted  the  jolly 
Irish  Administrator  of  a  German  province — an  allusion  to 
Martin's  occupation  as  engineer.  "Frau  Lindler  is  'The 
Lady  with  the  Golden  Crown,'  "  Mr.  Williams  went  on, 
referring  to  the  yellow  hair  of  a  newly  arrived  visitor  from 
Apia. 

' '  How  many  children  have  you  ? ' '  he  inquired  kindly  of  a 
strange  female  who  was  peeping  in  at  us  out  of  a  shower. 
"She  says  she  thinks  she  has  two!"  he  laughed.  Then, 
turning  to  a  perfect  beauty  who  had  strayed  in,  "I  never 
laid  eyes  on  this  girl  before.  She's  probably  from  the  last 
burned  village.  She  can't  be  a  week  over  fourteen,  but  she 
looks  all  of  twenty,  doesn't  she?" 

She  certainly  did,  the  ripe  and  sumptuous  tropic  creature, 
sitting  quite  at  ease,  calmly  regarding  the  company  from 
under  curved  lashes  that  veiled  dark  eyes  made  brown  by  the 
lights  in  her  sun-tanned  curly  hair.  Over  a  broad  low  fore- 
head,  her  hair  was  parted  and  rolled  over  the  ears,  and  done 
in  a  loose  coil  at  the  nape  of  her  round  girlish  neck.  She 
was  the  most  unsavage  savage  imaginable,  this  nut-brown 
maid  of  Polynesia  who  had  never  been  off  the  island.  She 
would  have  done  credit  to  any  assembly,  with  her  graceful 
port,  splendid  pose  of  head,  piquant  profile,  arch  rise  of  eye- 
brows, and,  above  all,  the  self-contained,  unembarrassed 
manner — a  born  aristocrat. 

"I  tell  her  you  say  she's  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world," 
Mr.  "Williams  informed  us,  after  some  remarks  to  her  in 
Samoan;  and  then  he  laughingly  added,  after  listening  to 
something  the  young  lady  said  to  him,  "and  she  says  ' Per- 
haps I  am,  I  don't  know.'  " — A  literal  reasoner,  she. 

Handsome  as  are  many  of  the  Samoan  women,  to  our  minds 
they  are  not  equal  to  their  magnificent  men,  gods  of  the 
seashore  who  refuse  to  become  slaves.  No  labour-ships  come 


292  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

here — no  natural  lord  of  Samoa  is  going  to  wear  his  heart 
out  upon  a  foreign  plantation.  Let  planters  comb  the  seas 
elsewhere  for  "black  boys," — New  Guinea,  Solomons,  New 
Ireland,  New  Hebrides.  The  men  of  Samoa  'Uma  will 
swing  their  own  mighty  shoulders  in  their  own  way,  upon 
their  own  strand,  and  praise  be  to  them ! 


Monday,  May  18,  1908. 

I  am  filled  with  unutterable  disgust  over  the  sleepless  fate 
that  sometimes — although  only  just  sometimes — cuts  me  off 
from  doing  the  things  I  wish  to  do.  Arrangements  were 
made  for  a  horseback  trip  to  the  volcano  to-day,  but 
I  was  too  tired  from  a  wakeful  night  to  face  long  hours  in 
the  hot  sun.  Martin  was  to  have  been  my  escort,  for  Jack 
has  an  uncomfortable  sore  on  his  foot,  which  worries  us  by 
its  unhealable  character,  especially  when  we  recollect 
Ernest's  disease. 

So  I  sent  the  Administrator  my  apologies,  and  remained 
in  bed  most  of  the  day,  trying  to  sleep.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon Jack  suggested  a  stroll,  and  we  visited  some  of  the 
houses,  where  we  made  the  owners  understand  that  we 
wanted  siapos.  We  returned  with  arms  full,  and  a  boy  or 
two  beside  to  carry  the  overflow.  They  are  the  finest  and 
largest  siapos  we  have  seen.  In  one  fale  we  surprised  three 
men  building  a  long  canoe,  squatted  on  the  mats  hospitably 
laid  for  us,  and  enjoyed  watching  the  adroit  joiners.  The 
best  canoes  are  not  the  stiff  dugouts,  but  these  ones  made 
in  closely-fitted  hand-hewn  planks,  bound  and  laced  together 
with  finest  skill  with  cocoanut  fibre.  The  Samoan  is  a  clever 
wood-worker,  and  his  " nails"  are  strong  and  beautiful 
sennit  of  cocoanut,  cleverly  bound  and  woven. 

Father  Williams  was  called  to  Safoto,  a  village  west  of 
Fagamalo,  to  arrange  about  sending  some  of  the  refugees 
there.  But  the  suggestion  was  not  his.  In  the  morning, 
boats  came  here  bringing  welcome  invitation  to  the  homeless. 
Jack  and  I  saw  these  boats  returning  from  inspection  of  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARE  293 

lava — fine  long  whaleboats  propelled  by  forty  oars,  their 
splendid  crews,  the  cream  of  Polynesia,  singing  part-songs 
as  they  raced  one  another  in  deep  water  along  the  edge  of 
the  sand.  These  men  are  almost  round-shouldered  with 
powerfully  developed  muscles.  But  this  muscle-training  has 
come  from  labour  of  love,  at  paddle  and  oar  and  fishing,  and 
not  from  degrading  toil  done  for  mere  money  and  at  com- 
mand of  a  master.  And  their  lives  show  that  their  en- 
deavour is  for  the  good  of  the  mass  rather  than  for  selfish 
individual  ends. 

Waiting  on  the  porch  near  dinner-time  for  the  return  of 
Father  Williams,  we  watched  the  men  and  women  passing 
in  their  leisurely  fashion,  and  exclaimed  over  and  over 
at  some  remarkable  type,  Hebraic,  Oriental,  Greek — they 
were  all  there — noting  again  the  physical  superiority  of  the 
males  in  general  over  the  females.  These  have  not  nearly 
the  fine  carriage  and  gait  of  their  mates,  and  we  could  look 
in  vain  for  the  queens  of  the  sex  one  sees  at  every  turn  in 
Hawaii.  We  kept  nodding  "Talofa"  to  the  strollers,  some 
of  whom  would  stop  at  the  gate,  or  come  frankly  in  to  shake 
hands,  with  renewed  assurances  of  "Talofa  lava."  Among 
such  neighbourly  callers  was  a  trio  of  half -naked  young  girls 
who  pursued  the  not  unusual  course  of  talking  at  length 
regardless  of  discrepancy  of  tongues.  After  bowing  and 
smiling  a  while  at  them,  which  only  increased  their  flow  of 
words,  Jack  adopted  their  method,  and  in  a  flatteringly 
genial  tone  took  up  the  defensive: 

"Yes,  yes — I  comprehend  conclusively  the  unanswerable 
mathematical  logical  significance  of  your  considerate  equi- 
lateral triangulation ;  but  your  deductions  are  unintelligibly 
misleading. " 

The  maidens  betrayed  a  hint  of  puzzlement,  but  rose  to 
the  situation  and  nodded  and  smiled — while  I  died  several 
deaths  to  hide  my  laughter. 

"Now,  on  the  other  hand,"  Jack  went  on  gravely,  "what 
is  your  unbiased  judgment  of  the  hypothetical  transforma- 
tion of  astronomical  hypothenuses  of  nebulosity?" 


294  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

He  paused  long  enough  to  control  a  smile  at  my  interpola- 
tion that  he  resembled  Zangwill's  " dictionary  in  distress," 
then  proceeded  in  an  argumentative  tone  tinged  with  be- 
coming deference: 

1  'It  is  no  use  losing  cognisance  of  the  irrefragable  per- 
tinacity of  the  lachrymal  pabulum.  Nevertheless,  I  consider 
that  no  indulgent  incorrigible  metaphysical  matriculate  will 
negate  the  anterolateral  angelolatry  of  strategic  Zoroas- 
trianism. ' ' 

It  began  to  dawn  upon  the  polite  trio  that  perhaps  they 
had  been  making  the  same  mistake  as  he,  and  when  my 
wicked  man  continued — "Do  you  not  realise,  that  your  in- 
comprehension detracts  lamentably  from  the  evolving  of 
my  trigonometrical  prestigitations  ? "  they  faded  softly  and 
smilingly  away,  but  without  loss  of  dignity,  their  "tofa  soi 
fua"  uttered  with  perfect  poise  and  calm.  What  an  actor 
was  lost  when  Jack  London  decided  to  write  for  a  living! 

Then  everybody  came  for  supper,  and  my  tender  con- 
science was  soothed  by  Frau  Lindner's  assurances  that  she 
had  been  rather  glad  I  did  not  go  to  the  volcano,  as  it  gave 
her  an  excuse  to  stay  behind!  Martin  and  the  rest  of  the 
party  were  weary  and  unsuccessful.  They  never  reached 
the  lip  of  the  crater,  for  it  rained  hard  on  the  mountain  and 
there  was  no  use  going  the  rest  of  the  severe  climb  through 
volcanic  sand,  only  to  miss  seeing  the  inside  of  the  crater 
on  account  of  cloud  and  rain. 

After  dark  we  visited  the  lava-flow,  and  passed  scores  of 
natives  drifting  in  the  same  direction,  bulking  large  and 
shadowy  in  the  wavering  crimson  light.  Mr.  Williams 
stopped  at  a  house  and  called  out  a  little  maid,  taupou  of  a 
deserted  village.  Her  name  is  Ufi,  signifying  The  Yam,  and 
she  is  sweet  and  wholesome  as  a  whole  garden  of  tropic  edi- 
bles, with  a  flower-patch  thrown  in.  It  is  fortunate  she 
lives  in  a  country  where  women  are  esteemed  above  food, 
or  she  might  fare  ill  at  the  hands  of  some  epicure  of  a  high 
chief.  Papa  Williams  had  already  told  us  he  had  the  dear- 
est little  girl  in  Savaii  to  show  us.  And  never  saw  we  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  295 

dearer.  She  is  not  more  than  fourteen,  built  squarely  and 
solidly,  with  healthy  hard  limbs  and  firm  virgin  breasts ;  and 
her  neck  is  like  a  doll's  or  a  baby's — round  and  short  and 
kissable,  like  her  round  brown  cheeks  that  flush  to  blood 
pounded  by  a  stout  little  heart.  Taupou  of  taupous  is  Ufi, 
so  lovable  and  healthy  and  deliciously,  adorably  young  that 
Frau  Lindner  and  I  could  not  keep  our  eyes  from  her,  nor 
our  caressing  hands.  Our  cart  broke  with  its  load  at  the 
bridge,  and  we  walked  on,  the  little  frau  and  I  on  either  side 
of  Ufi,  stopping  to  kiss  her  neck,  her  apple-cheek,  or  pat  her 
wonderful  coiffure — the  out-ended  fluffy  hair  that  measures 
at  least  eighteen  inches  across.  She  accepted  our  adoration 
composedly,  in  turn  patting  our  white  arms  with  tender  lit- 
tle moans,  saying  * '  Lelei "  in  a  soft,  misty  voice,  and  smiling 
affectionately  at  us. 

Terrible  were  the  ravages  of  the  eruption.  Over  yester- 
day's lava,  well  into  the  sea,  ran  new  streams,  issuing  like 
tortured  reptiles  white  with  agony,  turning  to  flame-colour, 
then  rose,  and  crimson  and  wine,  the  blackening  coming  on 
slowly,  as  air  and  moisture  reduced  the  moving  matter  to 
dead  cinder.  The  men  approached  a  curling  coil  of  the  in- 
describable impossible  fluid,  and  plunged  sticks  into  it,  while 
shielding  their  singeing  faces.  The  boiling-hot  lava  thus 
caught  was  stuck  into  the  water,  and  came  out  black  and 
steaming,  brittle  as  blown  glass.  Of  course  we  had  to 
imbed  coins  in  red-hot  fragments  which  soon  became  jet 
black,  ragged-edged  curios;  and  when  we  could  no  longer 
endure  the  searing  heat,  we  started  back  for  Fagamalo,  mak- 
ing love  to  Ufi  en  route.  Half  way,  Mr.  Williams  led  us 
into  a  spacious  fale  for  'ava.  The  family  were  nearly  all 
asleep  behind  high  partitioning  curtains  of  siapo — an  ar- 
rangement we  had  never  before  seen ;  but  they  were  only  too 
willing  to  entertain  their  beloved  "Father"  and  his  sisters 
and  brothers,  for  so  it  pleased  him  to  introduce  us.  I  lay 
down,  my  head  on  Ufi's  chubby  tattooed  knee,  and  when  T 
murmured  lomi-lomi,  a  bevy  of  small  shapes  rose  in  the 
changeful  gloom,  and  I  was  surrounded  by  punching,  slap- 


296  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ping,  kneading  gnomes,  their  bright,  mischievous  eyes  all 
that  was  distinct  of  them.  Nothing  would  have  suited  me 
better  than  to  stay  behind  with  these  soothing  comforters 
in  the  big  grass  house. 

Tuesday,  May  19,  1908. 

Fresh  from  a  glorious  night's  sleep,  bright  and  early  this 
morning  I  walked  through  the  green  village  among  the 
grass  houses,  glancing  into  the  cool  shadow  of  the  interiors, 
where  the  waking  ones  raised  auburn-bleached  heads  from 
bamboo  "pillows,"  and  blinked  good-naturedly  in  the  red- 
gold  sunrise.  Under  my  arm  was  a  bundle  of  white  mus- 
lin— twelve  yards  of  it,  bought  of  Mr.  Barts;  and  I  was 
bound  to  the  fale  of  Andy  Brunt,  a  half-caste  trader,  whose 
native  wife  had  engaged  to  print  my  cloth  in  siapo  design 
of  indelible  virtue.  The  handsome  fafine  sat  on  a  mat,  laid 
before  her  the  carven  mould  and  sent  for  her  bottles  of 
pigment  made  from  bark  of  trees.  Then  she  pressed  scraps 
of  cloth  on  the  pattern  and  smeared  them  with  other  scraps 
dipped  in  the  colouring  stuff,  until  I  found  the  tint  I 
wanted.  This  afternoon  the  twelve  patterned  yards  came 
back,  and  some  day  I  shall  startle  my  household  with  a  gown 
of  tapa  that  can  go  to  the  laundry  without  risk.  The  Brunts 
also  had  one  of  the  remarkable  rugs  of  "vegetable  fur," 
such  as  we  saw  at  Mr.  Moors',  and  which  he  was  unable  to 
duplicate  for  us.  The  Brunts'  one  we  bought  for  $20.00 — 
a  very  reasonable  price. 

During  the  day  the  villagers  trooped  to  our  house  with 
bales  of  siapos,  and  we  held  a  bazaar  surpassing  that  at 
Manua.  And  such  goods  as  we  found  here  in  Savaii — siapos 
of  undreamed  proportions — a  single  one  would  hang  the 
four  walls  of  a  room.  And  there  were  oblong  calabashes 
wrought  from  a  kind  of  ironwood,  called  ifilele.  We 
selected  only  the  best  of  everything,  for  we  must  not  hamper 
our  space  aboard  during  our  run  to  Fiji. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  297 

At  sea,  from  Savaii,  Samoa,  to  Suva,  Fiji, 

Wednesday,  May  20,  1908. 

Things  are  not  improved  aboard  the  Siiark.  And  the  fact 
that  the  sea  is  angry  and  that  it  looks  like  the  beginning  of 
a  gale,  does  not  help  matters.  Jack  has  now  definitely  de- 
cided to  get  rid  of  Captain  Warren  at  Suva,  and  take  over 
the  navigating  of  the  yacht.  I  am  worrying  about  his 
weighing  himself  down  with  added  work  and  responsibility ; 
but  it  seems  as  if  his  responsibility  is  growing  anyway,  cap- 
tain or  no  captain.  Warren  becomes  more  deliberately 
worthless  every  day,  and  we  really  do  not  feel  safe  with  him 
in  charge.  Jack  waited  hours  to-day  to  see  if  he  would  not 
take  in  the  lifeboat,  which  was  getting  pounded  by  the  big 
seas — indeed,  she  was  lifted  a  foot  or  so  every  time  the 
Snark  heeled  down,  and  the  resultant  jerk  threatened  to 
carry  away  the  davits.  A  suggestion  was  ventured  by  Jack 
that  it  might  be  well  to  swing  the  boat  in  on  deck,  but  the 
captain  resented  this,  and  said  very  briefly  that  it  was  per- 
fectly safe.  Poor  Jack  watched  the  imminent  wrecking  of 
his  valuable  property  for  a  little  longer,  and  at  last  said 
quietly  but  in  a  way  that  brooked  no  discussion,  that  the 
lifeboat  would  better  be  brought  inboard.  It  was  done ;  but 
it  took  over  an  hour.  Jack  wanted  to  prove  how  long  it 
would  take  in  case  of  need,  as  he  mistrusted  certain  Roscoe- 
like  optimistic  assurances  that  fifteen  minutes  would  do  the 
trick.  It  was  an  ungracious  obedience  accorded,  and  once, 
in  the  midst  of  the  sweating  endeavour,  in  answer  to  some 
remark  of  Jack's  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  work  in 
hand,  Warren  snapped: 

' '  You  told  me  to  get  the  boat  in,  and  I  'm  getting  it  in ! " 

He  snarled  repeatedly  at  the  boys,  all  of  whom  were  help- 
ing, and  when  the  boat  was  lashed  on  deck,  we  heard  the 
following : 

"Where 're  you  going,  Wada?  Come  up  out  o'  that! 
Wet,  are  you?  Well,  I  guess  you're  not  the  only  one  who's 
wet.  I'm  wet  as  you  are  ..."  and  here  followed  some  ex- 
pressions of  his  feelings  that  I  need  not  repeat.  Wada,  with 


298  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

recrudescent  hate  in  his  eye  for  which  no  one  could  blame 
him,  dragged  up  the  companionway  and  went  forward.  He 
was  not  needed  on  deck,  he  was  needed  below ;  yet  his  master 
had  to  exert  his  own  thwarted  authority  on  some  one,  and 
Wada  having  been  whipped  and  cowed  once,  was  the  only 
one  he  dared  vent  upon.  Emotional  maniac — that's  what 
he  is.  Why,  one  day  in  Papeete,  he  mentioned  Wada  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  broke  and  trembled  as  he 
said:  "That  Wada  is  a  man,  sir — he's  a  man,  clean 
through!" 

So  poor  Wada  hung  around  on  deck  a  few  moments,  and 
presently,  standing  at  the  companionway  he  called  back  to 
the  cockpit  in  a  tense,  high  voice : 

1 1  Can  we  go  down  now  ? ' ' 

The  captain  sprang  half  over  the  cockpit  rail.  His  venom 
went  to  his  head  like  a  strong  spirit  as  he  cursed  Wada,  and 
then,  remembering  me  he  apologised  in  his  oily  way :  ' '  You 
can  see  how  it  is,  Mrs.  London — he's  getting  out  of  hand." 

Oh,  yes ;  I  could  see  how  it  was — perfectly ;  and  I  didn  't 
love  J.  Langhorne  Warren  of  Virginia  the  last  least  little 
bit.  Also,  I  knew  that  if  he  had  not  controlled  himself,  if 
he  had  got  over  the  cockpit  rail,  Jack  and  Martin,  backed  by 
the  kanakas,  would  have  reached  for  him  before  ever  he 
could  reach  Wada. 

But  aside  from  the  slack  way  the  Snark  has  been  run  for 
months,  we  have  an  even  sorer  grievance,  based  upon  the 
conduct  of  our  captain  ashore.  As  Wada  once  put  it  to 
Nakata,  not  knowing  he  was  overheard:  "The  captain  of 
the  Snark  ought  go  around  like  captain  of  gentleman 's  yacht 
— but  no,  he  act  like  common  sailor — everybody  laugh  and 
talk  about  him — natives  they  laugh."  And  this  is  true.  He 
boasts  frequently  and  proudly  that  he  is  "Captain  of  Jack 
London's  yacht,  the  Snark/'  but  he  does  us  no  credit.  At 
Fagamalo,  he  so  vilely  outraged  the  hospitality  of  our  hosts 
and  his,  in  ways  that  concern  the  high  and  strict  moral  cus- 
toms of  the  land,  that  our  indecision  as  to  disposing  of  him 
was  forced  to  an  issue. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  299 

This  morning  we  sailed  out  in  a  light  breeze  about  nine 
o'clock,  and  cleared  the  land.  Father  Williams  and  Mr. 
Barts  came  aboard  with  us,  also  Ufi  and  her  taupou  mate, 
who  had  especially  asked.  We  departed  laden  with  fans 
and  hardwood  canes,  Solomon  Island  spears  and  a  debonaire 
little  red  god  of  those  same  islands,  all  gifts  from  the  two 
gentlemen.  We  intended  to  sail  yesterday;  but  some 
one  suggested  poker,  and  Jack  delayed  over  night.  The 
men  played  until  midnight,  and  I  slept  peacefully  in 
the  next  room,  lulled  by  the  blissful  manipulations  of  two 
strange  sweet  damsels,  sitting  cross-limbed  on  the  mattress 
on  either  side  of  me.  When  I  am  rich  I  am  going  to  have 
about  me  relays  of  Polynesian  lomi-lomi  experts. 

Before  we  left  the  house,  the  Administrator  went  to 
the  lava  flow,  and  found  the  church  banked  high,  all  in- 
flammable material  consumed.  So  his  bet  would  have  been 
good.  The  lava  is  working  down  toward  Fagamalo,  and 
Mr.  Barts  said  he  intended  to  begin  packing  his  goods 
and  belongings  as  soon  as  he  saw  us  off.  It  made  us  very 
pensive  to  imagine  this  pretty  village,  in  which  we  had  been 
so  at  home,  gone  to  the  ruin  of  ashes  and  lava.  "My  poor 
people!"  Father  Williams  mourned,  again  and  again,  un- 
derlip  a-tremble.  Hail!  Father  Williams — you  are  a  joy 
forever ;  and  long  may  you  administrate  Savaii. 

Thursday,  May  21,  1908. 

The  sea,  which  began  rising  early  last  evening  and  neces- 
sitated taking  in  the  lifeboat,  continued  boisterous,  with 
plenty  of  wind;  then  we  found  this  morning  that  the 
barometer  had  dropped  from  29 :95  to  29 :85.  I  am  verging 
on  nausea,  and  Jack  has  already  been  head-over-rail.  His 
disagreeable  sores  are  not  improving.  "For  a  man  to  live 
the  way  I  do/'  he  grumbles,  "and  to  catch  things  like 
this — "  Whereupon  we  recall  French  Ernest,  and  also  look 
askance  at  Captain  Warren's  hands,  which  are  unpleasant 
with  sores  that  will  not  heal.  That  gentleman  has  hardly 


300  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

spoken  all  day,  which  renders  meal-time  very  genial  and 
sociable — also  other  times.  We  have  dubbed  him  The 
Blight.  He  sits  and  sits  in  the  cockpit,  sometimes  steering, 
more  often  idle  beside  a  man  at  the  wheel,  and  glowers,  just 
glowers.  What  can  he  be  thinking  of?  There  is  no  dis- 
cipline aboard,  no  work  cut  out  for  the  men.  Henry  and 
Tehei  sit  and  sit,  doing  nothing  when  they  are  not  steering; 
no  polishing,  no  scrubbing,  no  sailorizing.  At  first  they 
hunted  around  for  work,  the  willing  pair;  but  few  men  are 
going  out  of  their  way  to  do  anything  for  a  master  who  re- 
quires nothing  of  them. 

The  Apian  turtle  expired  at  nightfall.  We  weren't  ready 
for  him  to  expire,  but  he  fooled  us.  Martin  thinks  the  life- 
boat squeezed  him,  for  about  the  time  the  captain  was 
struggling  with  his  temper  and  the  boat,  the  turtle  heaved  an 
unearthly  sigh,  and  to-day  seemed  very  listless,  with  droop- 
ing eyelids. 

The  barometer  rose  again  this  afternoon  to  29:95,  al- 
though the  weather  looks  about  the  same.  We  are  sailing 
fast,  and  the  decks  are  awash  amidships,  but  dry  forward 
as  usual.  Wada  has  to  keep  his  decklights  screwed  tight 
and  has  a  warm  time,  although  our  thermometer  is  dropping 
slightly. 

In  the  slate  and  silver  of  twilight  I  was  taking  a  brisk 
ride  on  the  weather  quarter,  balancing  on  the  broad  teak 
and  brass  of  the  rail,  and  watching  the  surging  whitecaps — 
"flocks  of  Proteus" — when  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
(for  the  Snark)  happened.  It  took  out  of  me  all  exhilara- 
tion in  the  rushing  Trades,  the  speeding  boat,  and  the  bulky 
seas,  when  one  of  the  latter,  rising  straight  up  alongside, 
was  a  little  too  quick  for  the  Snark1 's  sleek  avoiding  stern, 
and  broke  over  my  head,  curling  down  with  surprising 
weight.  It  wasn't  warm  water,  either.  Of  course  I  was 
drenched,  and  the  shock  and  chill  made  me  almost  hysterical. 
But  in  a  few  minutes  I  was  dried  and  clothed  in  oilskins, 
and  Jack  took  me  forward  to  the  lee  shrouds  to  watch  the 
big  waves.  The  water  washed  to  our  knees,  clear  over  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  301 

rail,  and  we  climbed  higher.  I  wish  I  could  tell  of  the 
glorious  tang  of  life  in  these  moments,  when  our  brave  little 
ship  is  holding  steadily,  stubbornly,  through  thick  and  thin, 
and  we  talk  of  our  plans  after  Suva.  Everything  now  is 
" after  Suva."  Jack  looks  cheerily  at  worn  and  neglected 
tackle  (rings  on  the  forestay  dangling  loose,  lashing  on 
mizzen  boom  jaws  gone  entirely,  the  peevish  smouldering 
eye  of  the  captain  taking  no  care),  and  says,  "When  we  get 
to  Suva,  I'll  do  so  and  so."  After  Suva,  the  decks  over 
the  galley  will  be  washed  first  in  the  morning,  so  Wada  will 
not  have  to  prepare  breakfast  in  that  awful  heat.  Suva  is 
our  Mecca,  and,  after  Suva,  Paradise. 

Except  to  say  that  he  would  like  the  mainsail  taken  in 
that  we  might  have  some  rest  during  the  night,  Jack  has  not 
further  interfered  with  his  captain's  management.  But 
there  really  is  no  management. 

Although  this  has  not  been  a  red-letter  day,  and  some  of 
our  blessings  would  seem  to  be  in  disguise  or  saving  for  the 
future  (e'en  ''after  Suva"),  we  are  glad  to  be  riding  close 
to  the  mysterious  ocean  in  our  intimate  small  vessel,  rather 
than  borne  aloft  in  a  "modern  wedge  of  steel,"  a  "floating 
hotel,"  on  which  the  sea  is  primarily  a  medium  of  conven- 
ience for  getting  somewhere — like  the  undulating  and  beau- 
tiful earth  under  a  fast  automobile.  Give  us  the  small  but 
doughty  Snark,  every  time ! 

May  22,  1908. 

One  hundred  and  twenty-seven  miles  in  the  past  twenty- 
four  hours,  under  jib,  staysail  and  mizzen.  The  gale  has 
moderated  somewhat,  but  we  haven't  dared  the  mainsail  as 
yet.  The  sun  is  perceptibly  going  north,  and  we  notice  a 
slight  coolness  of  wind  and  water  as  we  sag  southwest. 

May  23,  1908. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  miles. 

We  do  not  say  much  about  the  captain,  but  tacitly  dis- 
trust him  more  and  more,  the  farther  we  fare  toward  the 


302  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

mess  of  reefs  we  know  is  before  us.    We  have  a  canny  wari- 
ness of  reefs  by  this  time. 

Henry  caught  a  bonita  to-day  on  one  of  his  own  big  pearl- 
shell  hooks,  and  we  had  it  served  in  various  ways — baked, 
with  tomato  dressing,  and  sliced  raw,  native  fashion,  with 
French  dressing — better  than  any  raw  oysters  in  Christen- 
dom or  Heathendom;  and  chowder  for  supper. 


May  24,  1908. 

The  Snark  may  shake  herself  into  kindling  wood  for  all 
the  captain  cares.  To-day  the  main  boom  tackle  parted, 
shortly  after  the  mainsail  was  set,  and  the  big  sail  jibed 
over — always  a  dangerous  contingency.  Luckily  the  gale 
had  eased.  The  poorly-lashed  boats  move  and  grate. 
Decks  and  tackle  are  untidy,  and  as  we  surge  along  we  can 
hear  the  regular  scraping  rhythm  of  our  large  anchor,  which 
is  hanging  outboard  and  knocking  against  the  bow.  The 
man  must  be  crazy.  He  knows  the  anchor  was  not  stowed 
on  deck  when  we  left  Savaii — which  has  always  been  done 
hitherto,  as  a  matter  of  course — and  that  it  is  wearing  the 
planking  thin.  Surely  is  he  stretching  his  length  of  rope 
that  Jack  has  given  him,  for  he  realises  there  is  no  more 
rope.  He  was  heard  to-day  muttering,  "I  guess  I'll  get  my 
walking  papers  at  Suva!"  He  is  incredible.  But  we  do 
not  act  as  if  anything  were  out  of  the  way.  We  chat 
cheerily  at  table,  play  cribbage  and  poker  and  casino  even- 
ings, quite  as  if  he  were  normal  and  approved. 

.  .  .  Land!  Always  new,  always  fresh,  this  illusion  of 
discovery.  Out  comes  the  chart,  and  the  sextant  is  ready 
to  hand  for  the  first  rift  in  a  stubbornly  overcast  sky. 


May  25,  1908. 

If  we  of  the  Snark  are  out  for  sensations,  we  certainly 
caught  up  with  a  few  yesterday.  The  combination  could 
not  be  surpassed — a  small  boat  entirely  lost  in  a  no- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  303 

toriously  bad  tangle  of  deep-sea  reefs,  with  a  skipper  who 
had  not  only  lost  his  head  completely,  but  who  sat  down 
with  it  in  his  hands,  piteously  admitted  his  befuddlement, 
and  made  no  effort  to  brace  up. 

Now,  here  is  the  situation:  Nanuku  Passage,  the  ship 
channel  into  this  vast  archipelago,  is  roughly  sixteen  miles 
wide,  formed  on  the  southeast  by  the  islands  Wailangilala, 
Naitamba,  and  Yathata,  the  northwestern  side  bounded  by 
Nanuku  Reef  and  islets,  the  small  island  of  Ngamia,  and  a 
large  island,  Taviuni.  We  were  sailing  a  southwest  course, 
running  before  a  breaking  gale,  and  keeping  a  sharp  look- 
out for  the  entrance  islets.  Captain  Warren  made  a  six- 
teen-mile miss  in  his  calculations,  so  that  in  the  middle  of 
the  forenoon,  yesterday,  he  picked  up  the  westernmost  of  the 
islets,  the  Nanuku  Islets,  whereas  he  thought  them  the  east- 
ernmost, Wailangilala,  Naitamba,  and  Yathata.  On  this 
disastrous  basis,  he  turned  and  ran  to  the  west  of  the  west- 
ernmost, thinking  he  was  entering  the  Passage,  whereas  he 
was  running  away  from  it. 

Swinging  along  fast  and  free,  we  were  all  interest  in  the 
pretty  low  land  dots,  covered  with  trees,  when,  above  the 
rush  of  wind,  like  the  crack  of  doom  came  a  sudden  crash  of 
breakers  and  Henry's  screech  of  "Breakers  ahead!"  They 
were  so  close  that  only  a  terrific  spurt  of  intelligent  and 
concerted  energy  on  the  part  of  every  one  on  board  (Jack 
waited  not  on  any  captain  this  time)  saved  us  from  annihila- 
tion. We  just,  and  only  just,  evaded  the  creaming  ledge, 
and  doubled  back  on  our  tracks,  literally  very  much  at  sea. 

Resuming  our  southwest  course,  we  barely  escaped  an- 
other bursting  ledge  of  coral,  and  turned  back  again.  And 
every  time  we  resumed  our  course,  we  got  into  trouble.  In 
the  early  afternoon,  running  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
labyrinth,  no  matter  which  way  we  steered,  Jack,  thor- 
oughly alive  to  the  peril,  suggested  that  there  was  only  one 
thing  to  do,  as  the  sun  was  showing  signs  of  breaking  through 
the  grey  sky — to  get  our  certain  position  by  the  Sumner 
Line.  This  is  a  very  useful  method,  as  we  have  proved  before, 


304  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

when  you  are  trying  to  find  your  longitude  and  are  unable, 
on  account  of  an  overcast  sky  at  morning  and  noon,  to  ob- 
tain your  latitude.  Warren  was  shaking,  and  said  he  was 
unable  to  take  observations.  Jack  secured  one  at  three 
o'clock  and  another  at  five,  and  asked  Warren  to  work  them 
up.  He  tried,  gave  over,  saying  he  was  too  nervous ;  so  Jack 
turned  to  and  did  it  himself,  finding  our  position  to  be  a 
little  south  of  the  Ringgold  Isles.  We  had  worked  through 
and  around  the  sunken  tangle  of  Nanuku  and  Nukusemanu 
Reefs,  which  enclose  a  sort  of  long  lagoon  full  of  scattered 
dangers  which  we  had  almost  miraculously  avoided,  con- 
sidering the  lively  breeze. 

It  was  well  after  five  when  the  sights  were  worked  out, 
and  we  seemed  to  be  clear  for  the  time  being;  but  after  a 
few  miles,  we  discovered  coral  underneath  us,  too  close 
for  comfort.  This  was  Budd  Reef,  about  eight  miles 
westward  of  the  central  part  of  the  sunken  reefs  con- 
necting Nanuku  and  Nukusemanu  Reefs.  Budd  Reef,  ac- 
cording to  the  Sailing  Directions,  is  thirty-three  miles  in 
circumference,  much  of  it  sunken,  enclosing  a  deep  lagoon 
with  several  islets  in  it.  We  sailed  by  two  or  three  of  these 
islets,  heliotrope-green  in  the  imminent  twilight,  and  Jack 
saw  what  he  thought  a  good  anchorage.  But  Captain  War- 
ren demurred,  and  we  kept  on,  the  coral  visible  at  all  times 
but  a  few  feet  under  our  keel.  The  swift  twilight  overtook 
us  in  this  position,  and  it  was  decided  to  beat  back  and  forth 
all  night  in  the  lee  of  these  islets,  and  set  our  course  for 
Suva  in  the  morning.  This  was  taking  chances,  but  what 
else  could  we  do  ?  Sympathetically  we  thought  of  the  old  ex- 
plorers, Tasman,  D'Urville,  Bligh  of  the  Bounty,  and  of 
course  Captain  Cook,  who  wandered  likewise  in  these  forests 
of  coral,  and  although  we  had  charts,  little  good  had  they 
done  early  this  day,  with  Warren's  erroneous  position. 
Small  solace  would  have  been  ours,  had  we  been  wrecked 
here,  to  know  we  were  not  the  first  yacht  that  had  been. 

It  was  a  queer  evening.  Warren  refused  to  dine,  and  kept 
at  the  wheel,  tacking  back  and  forth  in  a  fairly  moderate 


Port   Resolution,   Tana 


The  Skipper,   "After   Suva 


The  Puzzled  Monkey- Brow 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  305 

sea;  the  rest  of  us  finished  supper,  sat  on  deck  a  little 
while,  watching  the  glooming  islets,  and  when  Jack  and  I 
went  below,  he  unpacked  his  two  old  square  grips  that  have 
been  our  familiars  on  many  a  trip,  gave  me  one  for  myself, 
and  repacked  his  with  manuscript  and  notes,  and  his  gold. 
I  was  blithely  instructed  to  stow  my  own  valuables  in 
the  other  grip ;  and,  this  done,  we  kissed  good  night  and  re- 
tired peacefully  to  our  little  bunks.  I  think  we  must  have 
been  tired,  or  resigned,  or  both;  for  never  on  the  long  voy- 
age of  the  Snark  have  we  put  in  a  better  eight  hours  than 
on  this  risky  night. 

The  mornings  are  so  wonderful,  so  various.  There  never 
was  another  in  my  life  at  all  like  this.  Coming  on  deck  at 
five,  the  trade  wind  flooded  me  through  and  through  with 
unwonted  coolness — a  coolness  without  bite,  a  coolness  liquid 
and  suffusing,  with  no  hint  of  sharpness.  The  whole  uni- 
verse was  heliotrope,  a  flat  tint  laid  upon  the  bowl  of  the 
sky  where  a  gold  sliver  of  new  moon  was  painted  above  the 
two  hilly  islets  showing  softly  green  through  their  darker 
heliotrope.  Small  creaming  waves  rippled  by  on  long  swells 
that  were  grey-purple  with  a  flush  of  red  from  the  shallow 
coral.  It  was  like  some  gently-coloured  pastel,  with  the  un- 
derlying details  and  colour  growing  as  one  gazed. 

Captain  Warren  looked  a  wreck.  He  is  only  a  child ;  but 
he  is  not  a  good  child.  In  spite  of  his  flunk  the  day  before, 
he  now  regarded  us  with  a  white  expectancy  of  praise  for 
his  wan  hours  of  watching.  "I  never  closed  an  eye  all 
night — I  brought  you  through  safe!"  he  quavered.  Sheer 
luck  it  was  that  saved  us,  not  he,  for  it  had  been  simply 
hit  or  miss  chance  in  the  dark ;  and  even  as  he  spoke,  Henry 
at  the  masthead  yelled  " Breakers!"  and  we  had  to  hustle 
mightily  to  skirt  the  streak  of  white  water  close  upon  us. 
(Jack  has  only  now  confessed  to  me  that  during  the  sixty 
days'  traverse  to  the  Marquesas,  he  more  than  once  found 
Warren  asleep  at  the  wheel  in  the  night.) 

At  six  the  mainsail  was  hoisted,  and  in  a  fair  breeze  our 


306  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

intrepid  keel  cleared  the  uncertain  lagoon  and  swept  south- 
east for  Somo  Somo  Strait,  on  our  starboard  Vanua  Levu, 
next  largest  of  all  the  Fijis,  and  Taviuni,  fourth  largest,  to 
port. 

It  has  been  a  happy  day.  Jack  has  smiled  all  over,  stepped 
merrily,  and  hummed  at  his  writing;  and  more  than  once 
we  have  looked  at  each  other  and  chuckled  over  the  manner 
of  our  retirement  last  night. 

We  breakfasted  on  deck,  not  wanting  to  miss  anything; 
and  then  I  brought  my  books  to  the  cockpit,  to  study  up  a 
little  on  Fiji.  I  found  that  there  are  two  hundred  and 
fifty-five  islands  and  islets  of  all  constructions  from  low 
coral  to  high  volcanic,  in  an  area  of  8000  square  miles,  and, 
dull  slump  from  childhood  horrific  connotations  of  "Fi- 
jian/' that  the  natives  are  "nominally  Christians,"  reformed 
of  cannibalism  and  other  sweet  practices  of  less  than  seventy 
years  ago,  such  as  the  binding  of  live  human  bodies  to 
lengths  of  banana  trees,  for  boat-rollers  to  launch  great 
war  canoes — to  the  music  of  mortal  shrieks  accompanied  by 
crunching  bones  and  tearing  flesh.  But  there  were  merciful 
impulses  among  the  Fijians,  as  displayed  in  the  following 
custom :  When  parents  had  lived  so  long  that  it  was  deemed 
a  kindness  to  kill  them,  their  devoted  children  affectionately 
bade  them  farewell  with  kisses,  before  wrapping  the  living 
bodies  in  fine  (but  not  too  fine!)  mats,  burying  them  alive, 
and  faithfully  treading  down  the  squirming  graves.  These 
lovable  deeds  were  invariably  performed  when  the  yam  and 
taro  were  in  season,  so  that  great  feasts  might  be  enjoyed 
to  celebrate  the  timely  passing  of  the  beloved. 

It  is  small  wonder  that  few  persons  know  the  accepted 
spelling  of  Fiji.  Here  are  several  that  England  had  to 
select  from:  Beetee;  Fegee;  Fejee;  Fidjee;  Fidje;  Fid- 
schi;  Feigee;  Vihi;  Viji;  Viti — and  the  natives  call  them- 
selves Kai-Viti.  We  civilised  people  are  Kai-Papalanhi. 

The  Fiji  Islands  grow  sandalwood,  tobacco,  breadfruit, 
bananas,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  tropical  blessings,  and  in  ad- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  307 

dition  are  especially  suited  to  cotton-raising.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  read  that  some  of  their  cotton  was  used  in  our  Civil 
War. 

The  more  I  dip  into  the  South  Pacific  Ocean  Directory, 
the  more  I  believe  that  to  me  it  is  going  to  take  its  place  as 
the  most  fascinating  of  all  books.  Few  volumes  four  inches 
thick  are  casually  attractive;  but  once  studying  this  one's 
pages,  in  connection  with  an  adventure  like  ours,  nothing 
can  equal  it  for  romance.  The  personal  opinions  of  the 
compilers  lend  a  pleasant  spice  of  humour — as,  for  instance, 
one  writer,  after  noting  that  the  Taviuni  inhabitants  were 
formerly  the  most  cannibalistic  of  all  the  Fijians,  with  prac- 
tices quite  too  revolting  to  mention,  tacks  on  the  gratuitous 
observation:  "However,  they  stand  as  records  degrading 
to  our  nature." 

Somo  Somo  Strait  is  four  and  a  half  miles  at  the  narrow- 
est. The  big  mountainous  islands  rise  four  thousand  feet, 
hooded  in  rolling  glories  of  tropic  clouds.  Here  and  there 
waterfalls  drop  their  white  plummets  or  blow  rainbow  veils 
across  the  green  steeps. 

Not  the  least  of  yesterday's  impressions  was  the  absence 
of  life  on  the  islets  among  which  we  were  lost,  and  this 
morning  we  saw  our  first  Fijians.  Well  for  our  peace  of 
mind  that  we  knew  them  to  be  friendly,  for  the  bushy- 
headed,  negroid-featured,  staring-black-eyed  savages  were 
not  reassuring  on  the  face  of  it.  A  cutter  put  out  from  a 
village  on  Taviuni,  under  a  cloud  of  canvas,  and  as  it  drew 
near  we  could  see  the  white  flash  of  their  grins  as  the  men 
shouted  and  waved  to  us.  We  waved  back,  and  put  our  best 
foot  forward  for  a  spurt  with  them,  although  knowing  well- 
that  the  Snark's  sail-plan  was  not  for  racing  with  sloop- 
rigged  vessels.  As  the  woolly  piratical-looking  crew  gained 
on  us,  Captain  Warren  ordered  Martin  to  start  the  engine. 
This  did  not  strike  us  as  a  sporting  proposition,  and  we  said 
so ;  but  Warren  coaxed,  Jack  shrugged,  and  Martin  went  be- 
low. We  could  see  gesticulations  of  surprise  on  the  driving 


308  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARE 

cutter  as  we  gathered  speed,  which  changed  to  derisive  point- 
ings and  laughter  as  they  finally  won  by  in  spite  of  our 
engine,  and  heard  its  chug-chug. 

Nearing  the  end  of  the  warm  afternoon,  our  breeze 
has  dropped  to  a  mild  summer  fan  infinitely  restful  after 
days  of  buffeting.  Jack  is  reading  under  the  cockpit  awn- 
ing, which  is  stretched  for  the  first  time  since  Samoa.  He 
has  finished  his  story  "Chun  Ah  Chun,"  one  of  a  collection 
of  Hawaii  yarns  that  he  will  entitle  The  House  of  Pride. 
I  have  completed  the  typing  of  it  and,  drawn  by  his  subject, 
have  put  in  a  couple  of  hours  on  the  shaping  up  of  my  own 
book  of  Hawaii. 

Koro  Sea,  Fiji  Archipelago, 
May  26,  1908. 

In  all  our  "Snarking,"  to-day  occurred  our  first  "gam- 
ming"— exchanging  calls  with  another  vessel  at  sea.  We 
were  skating  quietly  over  the  Koro  Sea,  in  the  heart  of  this 
vast  archipelago,  the  water  smooth  as  a  blue  jewel,  crusted 
in  rough-cut  gems — these  the  distant  summer  isles  of  green 
and  gold  that  encircled  us.  From  one  of  these,  Koro,  we 
made  out  a  speck  of  a  white-sailed  boat  coming  our  way. 
It  proved  to  be  a*  cutter  much  like  the  one  we  raced  yester- 
day, but  only  a  single  shock-headed  native  was  visible.  He 
shouted  and  gesticulated,  and  a  white  man  stuck  his  head 
up  from  below,  rubbing  his  eyes  sleepily.  A  yawn  paused 
midway  as  he  caught  sight  of  us : 

"What  ship  is  that?" 

"Snark,  San  Francisco!"  Captain  Warren  returned. 

The  man  sprang  to  the  rail  and  yelled  excitedly: 

"Not  Jack  London's  yacht!" 

Being  assured  by  us,  he  fell  into  his  small  boat,  while  all 
hands  were  called  to  take  in  our  spanker  and  spinnaker — 
the  latter  set  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  long  day.  Then 
we  lumbered  ahead  creakily  under  short  canvas,  and  had  a 
good  deep-sea  gossip  with  our  Yankee  visitor,  Frank  Whit- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  309 

comb,  who  was  so  elated  over  meeting  Jack — evidently  an 
idol  of  his — that  he  could  hardly  talk  coherently.  Every 
time  he  started  to  answer  questions  about  the  islands,  he 
would  break  off  with  something  like: 

"Well — Jack  London! — I  can't  believe  it!"  And  again, 
"To  think  of  my  ever  seeing  Jack  London  and  the  Snark!" 
And  over  and  over:  "This  is  the  greatest  day  of  my  life, 
I  tell  you!" 

He  was  enthusiastic  over  the  lines  and  compactness  of  the 
yacht,  and  kept  repeating,  "Now  this  is  a  proper  boat,  this 
is."  Or  "My!  but  this  is  the  kind  of  boat  I'd  like  to  have 
to  cruise  around  here  in!" 

He  paddled  back  to  his  sloop,  and  returned  with  welcome 
potatoes,  onions,  yams,  and  some  taro.  Then,  after  an  ex- 
change of  addresses  and  some  bottles  of  our  Tahiti  wine, 
and  the  promise  on  Jack's  part  to  send  him  a  Snark  book 
when  it  is  published,  he  departed,  reiterating  to  the  last  that 
it  was  the  happiest  day  of  his  life.  .  .  .  We  may  never  meet 
the  good-hearted  fellow  again;  but  this  brief  kindly  contact 
will  be  unforgettable. 

Suva,  the  capital  of  the  Fijis,  on  Viti  Leva,  the  largest 
of  the  group,  is  a  much  visited  port,  so  I  shall  briefly  run 
through  our  delightful  week  there,  on  to  the  day  when 
our  new  skipper,  one  Jack  London,  took  the  Snark  out  of 
Suva  Harbor,  bound  for  the  difficult  New  Hebrides,  with 
their  cannibals  and  burning  mountains. 

We  received  a  most  lovely  impression  of  Suva  as  we 
throbbed  through  the  reef  entrance  and  crossed  the  long  har- 
bour. The  quaint  English  town  rises  terrace  upon  terrace 
against  green  hills,  the  houses  smothered  in  splendid  trees. 
Viti  Levu  is  eighty-five  miles  long  by  fifty-seven  wide,  its 
beautiful  mountains  climbing  to  a  height  of  4000  feet, 
capped  with  the  inevitable  tropic  clouds. 

The    Harbourmaster,    Captain    C.    Woolley,    with    open- 


310  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

armed  hospitality  came  out  to  pilot  us  to  an  anchorage. 
Captain  Warren,  soiled,  unshaven,  unbelievably  unkempt, 
insulted  him  with  a  cold  shoulder  and  the  ungracious  sug- 
gestion that  he  guessed  he  could  bring  in  the  ship  without 
any  help.  I  saw  Jack  flush  painfully ;  but  Captain  Woolley, 
recovering  from  his  surprise  at  such  treatment  from  a  yacht- 
master,  smiled  a  little  smile  and  said: 

"I  am  not  going  to  charge  anything  for  conning  the 
Snark  in,  Captain!"  and  turned  to  Jack  and  me.  He 
piloted  us  to  a  very  convenient  anchorage  to  the  boat  wharf, 
and  made  arrangements  for  Jack  and  me  at  Mrs.  MacDon- 
ald's  Hotel. 

Captain  Warren  went  ashore  shortly  after  our  arrival, 
quite  unconcerned  over  the  condition  of  our  pretty  bow  (the 
anchor  had  worn  clear  through  the  planking),  and  of  vari- 
ous other  inexcusable  damages.  He  did  not  go  near  the 
yacht  for  two  days,  accumulated  many  drinks,  and  strutted 
around  town  like  a  pouter  pigeon,  meanwhile  bragging  that 
he  was  captain  of  the  Snark.  The  first  time  he  went  aboard, 
it  was  to  show  off  his  command  to  a  guest — when  he  was 
informed  by  a  delighted  Wada  that  his  things  had  been 
sent  ashore  to  the  hotel  by  Mr.  London's  order,  and  that 
there  he  was  to  report.  He  reported,  and  I  confess  I  was 
eavesdropper  to  the  interview  that  culminated  in  his  dis- 
missal— on  the  captain's  part  entirely  a  whine  that  Jack  was 
influenced  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  the  penitentiary. 
However,  Jack  left  no  honest  doubt  in  his  mind  that  that 
was  the  very  reason  he  had  been  kept  on  from  Papeete 
— to  give  him  his  opportunity.  Within  a  couple  of  days, 
Warren  had  secured  a  chance  to  work  his  passage  on  the  five- 
masted  schooner  Samar,  in  port,  bound  for  Australia.  He 
quit  us  several  hundred  dollars  overdrawn — all  of  which 
was  part  of  the  "rope"  Jack  had  given  him. 

As  we  entered  the  harbour,  the  British  Cruiser  Cambrian 
steamed  out,  taking  the  High  Commissioner  of  the  South 
Seas,  Sir  Everard  Im  Thurm,  on  a  tour  of  inspection  to  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  311 

west.  Captain  Lewes  of  the  Cambrian,  and  his  wife,  Jack 
had  met  in  Korea;  and  now  Captain  Woolley  invited  us  to 
join  a  party  the  following  day  in  a  walk  out  on  the  barrier 
reef  at  low  tide,  the  party  to  include  Lady  Im  Thurm  and 
Mrs.  Lewes,  the  latter  having  stayed  in  Suva  to  keep  Lady 
Im  Thurm  company  at  the  Government  Residence.  We 
gladly  accepted,  and  during  that  novel  tramp  learned  things 
about  reefs  that  made  us  more  than  ever  anxious  to  avoid 
them  in  the  Stiark. 

We  occupied  two  cosy  little  English  rooms  at  the  hotel, 
with  four-posters  and  candles,  and  Mrs.  MacDonald  made  us 
feel  quite  at  home.  She  has  lived  in  the  Fijis  for  many 
years,  and  distinctly  remembers  times  when  the  natives  were 
not  nearly  so  "nominally  Christian"  as  now;  and  many  and 
absorbing  were  her  tales  over  afternoon  tea  in  her  shady 
green  balcony,  of  the  sailing  she  did  with  her  husband  years 
ago  to  the  various  islands. 

The  steward  in  the  hotel  dining-room  is  a  diminutive  Solo- 
mon Islander,  called  Johnny,  who  grew  up  here.  I  can  see 
him  yet,  ludicrously  dignified  and  condescending,  forced, 
from  briefness  of  stature,  to  look  aloft  when  every  instinct 
of  his  courteous  hauteur  calls  for  a  downward  glance.  He 
has  a  funny  thin-lipped  mouth,  big  staring  black  eyes  and 
a  button  of  a  snub-nose,  his  seal-brown  countenance  shad- 
owed by  a  tremendous  black  poll  of  inky  wool  sharp-carven 
as  a  wooden  image.  Johnny  announces  meal-time  with  a 
stately  solo  on  a  large  cowbell.  Meal-time!  How  we  did 
consume  the  fresh  vegetables,  and  real  cream,  and  cheeses, 
to  say  nothing  of  good  red  English  beef,  broiled  wild 
pigeons,  and  many  kinds  of  fish.  At  our  table  sat  a  kindly 
old  man,  Mr.  Watson,  who  has  kept  a  curio  shop  here  for 
many  years.  He  found  me  a  few  fans  and  things,  and  clubs 
for  Jack;  but  he  had  to  make  quite  a  search  for  them. 
Fans  are  especially  scarce,  as  the  natives,  now  they  can  buy 
white  men's  commodities,  have  almost  given  over  fashioning 
the  old-time  articles.  The  Fijian  fans  are  much  heavier  and 


312  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

better  woven  than  any  I  have  yet  found — compact  and  firm, 
with  thick  short  handles.  Jack's  clubs  are  exceedingly  fine, 
carved  out  of  rich-coloured  hard  wood. 

At  table,  Jack  had  the  seat  occupied  by  Madame  Melba 
on  her  last  visit.  Suva  is  a  profitable  port  for  artists. 
Madame  Carreno  is  a  great  favourite,  and  I  met  one  of  her 
pupils  at  the  Warden's  one  day.  One  of  our  most  vivid 
memories  of  the  place  will  always  be  Blanche  Arral,  the  Bel- 
gian concert  soprano,  and  her  husband  Herold  Bassett,  who 
were  at  another  hotel,  surrounded  by  the  most  entrancing 
''boxes"  labelled  "On  Tour/'  a  French  maid,  a  skurry  of 
fluffy  blue-blooded  Skye  terriers,  and  a  cluster  of  blue-eyed 
Siamese  cats  presented  the  diva  by  the  King  of  Siam. 
They  are  a  fascinating  combination,  the  Arral-Bassett ;  and 
her  tropical  wardrobe — I  spent  an  entire  afternoon  of  sheer 
delight  in  it.  Suva  was  buzzing  with  enthusiasm  over  Mme. 
Arral's  voice. 

The  main  street,  along  the  water  front,  as  seen  from  our 
balcony,  was  always  alluring  with  its  procession  of  strange 
life.  The  contract  labour  here  is  largely  Hindoo,  and  the 
heavily  be-turbaned  men  and  heavily  be-silvered  women 
looked  very  foreign  even  among  the  natives.  One  conspicu- 
ous custom  of  the  Hindoos  is  their  public  shaving  at  the 
shore  edge  of  the  street. 

The  Fijians  are  very  different  from  our  Polynesian 
friends,  sharing,  as  they  do,  in  the  Melanesian  strain,  which 
renders  them  darker  of  skin  and  negroid  of  feature.  Our 
next  islanders,  the  New  Hebrideans,  are  sans  Polynesian, 
and  are  rated  as  the  lowest  of  the  Melanesians  to  boot.  The 
Fiji  men  struck  me  as  far  superior  to  their  women.  It  is 
said,  however,  that  the  chief-women  in  Fiji,  especially 
among  the  mountaineers,  are  strikingly  beautiful;  but  we 
saw  none  of  them. 

And  through  this  driftage  of  varying  blacks  and  browns 
up  and  down  the  long  thoroughfare,  the  big  equipages  of 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  313 

elegant,  luxurious  Englishwomen  clank  by,  and  everywhere 
is  the  military  neatness  and  impressiveness  of  English  atmos- 
phere. 

We  worked  hard  in  Suva,  answering  mail,  and  doing  our 
regular  work  as  well.  One  item  of  news  from  home  was 
that  The  Pacific  Monthly  was  to  bring  out  serially  Jack's 
novel  Success,  which  they  have  decided  to  entitle  Martin 
Eden.  But  our  work  did  not  prevent  us  from  making  some 
very  pleasant  social  contacts.  We  were  entertained  at  the 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Griffiths,  of  the  Fiji  Times  (she  is 
from  Texas,  and  edits  this  bright  sheet,  besides  bringing  up 
her  seven  children),  and  they  also  took  us  on  a  pigeon- 
hunting  expedition,  where  we  saw  many  miles  of  the  rich 
tilled  and  tillable  lands  of  the  island.  Lady  Im  Thurm's 
and  the  Warden's  and  many  another  card  were  left  at  our 
hotel,  and  we  met  the  townsfolk  at  teas  and  receptions — one 
of  them  at  the  Government  Residence;  and  there  was  one 
evening's  dancing  at  the  house  of  Lady  Im  Thurm's  secre- 
tary, Mr.  Rankin,  where  we  saw  a  native  dance  which  some- 
what resembles  the  Samoan  siva-siva. 

It  was  very  cool  in  Suva,  so  cool  we  were  threatened  with 
colds.  There  is  dengue  fever  here,  too,  and  Jack  and  I  were 
of  no  mind  to  repeat  our  Florida  sufferings  with  the  same, 
which  we  knew  under  the  name  of  Boo-Hoo  Fever,  from  its 
ability  to  make  one  weep  at  the  most  trivial  things.  Earth- 
quakes are  also  among  Fiji's  attractions,  and  we  had  a  good 
stiff  one ;  but  there  are  no  active  volcanoes,  alas ! 

Besides  the  pigeon-shooting  trip,  our  only  other  exploring 
out  of  Suva  was  to  Rewa  Town,  a  famous  native  village  up 
the  Rewa  River. 

We  started  in  the  morning  on  a  little  river  steamer  that 
made  us  homesick  for  the  Sacramento,  and,  as  we  got  under 
way,  the  schooner  Samar  was  shaking  out  her  sails  for  de- 
parture. Passing  the  Snark,  we  waved  our  hands  at  Wada, 
working  on  deck,  and  pointed  toward  the  big  schooner's 


314  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

preparations,  for  Wada  knew  Warren  was  to  sail  in  her. 
Wada  misunderstood  our  gestures,  ran  to  the  flag-halyards, 
and  dipped  the  flag  three  times.  Jack  and  I  laughed,  won- 
dering if  Warren  thought  the  salute  was  for  him.  Before 
we  entered  the  river,  the  Samar  was  under  way,  every  sail 
drawing,  and  that  was  the  passing  of  our  third  and  last  cap- 
tain of  the  Snark. 

We  were  well  conducted  on  this  bit  of  tourist  route,  by 
our  native  guide,  a  natty  youth  with  the  fuzziest  of  head- 
dresses, brushed  stiffly  up  and  cut  in  the  usual  sculptural 
fashion.  He  wore  a  white  shirt  and  a  coat  of  very  visible 
stripe,  and  carried  a  cane  with  a  nonchalance  that  would 
have  been  impressive  but  for  bare  legs  and  feet,  and  his 
nether  garment,  which  was  a  white  lava-lava. 

Our  attention  was  much  taken  up  with  the  other  passen- 
gers— bushy-haired  natives  with  leaf -tobacco  over  their  ears, 
and  a  little  Hindoo  huddle  of  women  and  their  delicate- 
featured,  turbaned  men.  These  little  women  bore  gorgeous 
ornaments,  for  thus  do  they  carry  their  own  and  their  hus- 
bands' wealth.  Silver  is  beaten  into  anklets,  armlets,  brace- 
lets, earrings,  and  every  other  conceivable  decoration,  and 
gold  coins  are  immediately  appropriated  as  ornaments. — 
And  thus  the  Far  East  toward  which  we  are  reaching,  lures 
us  on  our  way. 

It  is  twelve  miles  by  steamer  to  Rewa  Town,  and  I  do  not 
know  which  of  the  several  mouths  of  the  stream  we  entered. 
It  was  narrow,  and  edged  with  rooty  mangrove  swamps,  and 
our  little  steamer  poked  her  nose  into  them  more  than  once 
and  had  to  back  out.  The  Big  Water,  as  the  natives  call  the 
main  river,  is  dotted  with  fairy  green  islets,  exquisitely 
reflected  in  the  smooth  stream,  and  we  passed  gay  boatloads 
of  natives.  The  river,  now  flanked  by  valuable  sugar-cane 
plantations,  rises  some  forty  miles  beyond  Rewa  Town,  in 
the  mountains — very  dangerous  territory  for  explorers  not 
so  long  ago. 

We  landed  on  a  flat  bank  of  rich  black  earth  at  the  vil- 
lage, and  immediately  noticed  our  old  Samoan  acquaintance, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  315 

the  sensitive  plant,  which  shrank  inhospitably  from  our 
feet.  Eatu  Joni  E.  Malaitini,  the  Roka,  or  Chief,  of  Rewa, 
took  gracious  charge  of  us.  He  is  another  specimen  of  the 
physical  aristocracy — head  and  shoulders  above  the  common 
people,  and  straightens  up  with  a  proud  '  *  I  am ! ' '  when 
asked  if  he  is  pure  Fijian.  We  noticed  the  humble  saluta- 
tions of  the  women  to  him  as  he  paced  along. 

The  first  point  of  interest  was  the  English  church  built  by 
the  natives — a  beautiful  structure  with  two  square  towers, 
like  Westminster,  and  a  rounding  back,  on  the  lines  of  Notre 
Dame.  In  the  vestry  we  noted  big  savage  war-drums  made 
from  logs — now  used  for  the  peaceful  call  to  prayer. 

Fijian  houses  are  very  fine  in  workmanship,  the  chief- 
houses  having  great  beams  covered  with  the  finest  sennit 
of  cocoanut  fibre.  Roofs  are  sharply  peaked,  or  gabled, 
and  of  immense  height,  the  ends  curving  up,  Japanese 
fashion,  with  black  ridgepoles.  The  thatch  is  sugar-cane, 
and  the  outside  walls  of  the  houses  are  covered  with  some 
sort  of  dry  brown  leaves.  Interiors  are  very  dark,  smoky 
from  floor-fires,  with  but  one  door  and  a  couple  of  small 
deep-set  windows.  After  accustoming  our  eyes  to  the  acrid 
gloom,  we  could  see  the  lofty  sennit-beamed  ceilings,  and 
judged  some  of  the  ridgepoles  to  be  as  high  as  fifty  feet. 
Along  the  irregular  paths  among  the  houses  rise  occasional 
carven  king  posts,  some  of  them  thirty  feet  tall,  of  splendid 
hardwood.  We  longed  to  send  one  home  as  a  souvenir. 

Into  the  most  imposing  of  these  remarkable  buildings  we 
were  conducted  with  great  ceremony,  and  presented,  with 
still  more  form,  to  a  shrivelled  object  in  the  centre  of  the 
long  floor,  disposed  upon  thick-woven  mats.  It  was  the  old 
chief,  Ratu  Rabici,  the  most  ancient  thing  I  ever  saw  alive. 
He  was  shaking  with  years  and  alcohol,  being  a  noted  toper ; 
but  in  spite  of  his  emaciated  mummy-face,  with  its  lack- 
lustre eyes,  large  ears,  and  a  monkey-trick  of  scratching  his 
protuberant  ribs  with  a  skinny  claw,  he  managed  to  convey 
to  us  something  of  his  unmistakable  kingliness.  I  was  dying 
to  question  what  might  be  his  honourable  tally  of  human 


316  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

feasts,  but  realised  that,  even  were  I  so  rude,  I  would  not 
get  the  right  answer. 

It  was  good  to  be  out  in  the  blowing  sunny  air  again, 
among  the  breadfruit  and  tree  ferns,  where  we  found  women 
making  pottery — some  of  the  older  ones  with  a  finger  or  so 
missing,  it  being  an  old  custom  to  cut  off  a  finger  in  token 
of  mourning  for  the  dead. 

In  one  of  the  more  modern  native  houses,  full  of  light 
and  sun,  reclining  on  deep-piled  mats  we  partook  of  one  of 
the  best  native  feasts  we  had  had  south  of  the  Equator.  And 
while  we  ate  and  drank  at  our  ease  on  the  satin-smooth  hand- 
woven  mats,  from  somewhere  came  young  voices  singing 
Christian  hymns.  One  of  them  was  "Pass  me  not,  0  gentle 
Saviour, ' '  and  I  smiled  to  think  how  old  Moody  and  Sankey 
would  have  beamed  to  hear  it  in  this  outlandish  environment. 


Aboard  the  SnarJc,  Fiji  to  New  Hebrides, 
Saturday,  June  6,  1908. 

You  might  think  that  SnarJc  departures  had  by  this  time 
lost  their  novelty.  Not  so.  Our  departure  this  morning 
from  Suva  had  all  the  snap  and  go  of  a  new  adventure ;  and 
rightly  so,  for  it  was  literally  a  new  adventure.  Jack  was 
captain,  Henry  (who  had  had  desertion  in  his  eye  "before 
Suva")  was  now  mate,  and  the  newest  thing  aboard  was  the 
spirit  that  sailed  with  us.  It  was  "After  Suva,"  and  Jack 
was  happy.  Every  one  was  merry;  every  one  had  reason 
to  be.  The  Blight  had  been  wiped  out,  and  Mr.  London 
was  skipper.  Tehei  for  the  past  week  was  so  happy  over 
the  prospect,  that,  when  Jack  raised  his  pay,  the  dear  child- 
man  begged  to  be  allowed  to  work  for  nothing;  but  "Noth- 
ing doing!"  was  Jack's  reply.  Nakata  was  all  teeth,  and 
went  about  his  work  emitting  happy  little  noises.  Martin 
wore  a  face  of  extreme  contentment ;  and  Wada  hummed  in 
his  hot  little  galley. 

Anent  Jack's  taking  command,  Martin  tells  the  following 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  317 


geress"  of  a  hotel  in  Suva,  who  volunteered  that  she'd  heard 
in  town  that  the  Snark  was  going  to  sail  without  Captain 
"Warren.  Martin  answered  that  this  was  true,  but  that  Mr. 
London  was  going  to  be  skipper. 

' '  I  should  think  you  'd  all  be  scared  to  death  to  go  without 
a  captain — I  would!" 

"But  Mr.  London  is  going  to  be  captain,"  Martin  re- 
peated. 

"My  goodness — it  doesn't  seem  right  for  a  little  boat  like 
that  not  to  have  a  captain ! ' '  she  pursued,  with  feminine  dis- 
regard of  any  one's  speech  but  her  own. 

"Well,  we  all  think  Mr.  London  is  a  better  captain  than 
any  the  Snark  has  had  yet,"  Martin  warmed  up.  "He  can 
navigate  all  around  Captain  Warren,  and — " 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  safe  for  you  fellows  to  trust 
yourselves  at  sea  in  a  boat  like  that  without  a  captain." 

Martin  ground  his  teeth  and  forthwith  discovered  he  had 
business  down  street,  leaving  the  woman  to  vapour  over  the 
dread  future  of  the  Snark. 

Our  first  memory  and  our  last  of  Suva  Harbor  will  always 
be  of  the  unremitting  kindness  of  Captain  Woolley.  He  saw 
us  safely  out  as  he  had  seen  us  safely  in,  and  rendered  us  a 
thousand  other  kindnesses. 

The  northwest  trade  was  blowing  a  youthful  gale,  and 
as  our  course  was  southwest,  we  boomed  along  before  it. 
In  order  to  make  good  time,  and  sail  free  of  the  honeycomb 
of  reefs  to  starboard,  Jack  set  the  spinnaker.  We  rushed 
along  with  a  corkscrew  sort  of  motion,  our  copper  heel  in 
a  churning  cream  of  foam.  Pretty  work  it  was,  steering 
through  the  blowing  world  of  sea,  and  we  were  not  alone  in 
it,  for  there  were  many  little  white  cutters  in  sight. 

...  It's  going  to  be  a  rough  night,  and  we  shall  miss 
Mrs.  MacDonald's  fluffy,  stationary  beds. 


318  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


June  7,  1908.— 150  miles. 

And  it  was.  I  fell  asleep  toward  morning,  and  was 
dreaming  heavily  of  a  free-for-all  fight  of  the  Snark  crew 
with  Captain  Warren,  when  I  was  shaken  awake  by  Henry's 
laugh  on  deck — a  musical  yet  rollicking  gurgle  of  utter  con- 
tent, like  an  American  negro's.  And  when  I  came  on  deck, 
gentle  Tehei  was  singing  a  himine  at  his  work.  Henry  un- 
earthed some  hitherto  unheard-of  (by  us)  navigation  books, 
and  pottered  with  them  at  odd  moments.  The  morning 
faces  of  all  hands  brought  to  our  minds  that  this  is  the  first 
time  we've  ever  had  a  true  "Snarking"  crowd  aboard. 

Jack  slept  but  three  hours,  owing  to  a  bad  cold  as 
well  as  the  responsibility  of  the  boat,  and  did  not  try  to 
write  to-day,  but  busied  himself  getting  hold  of  everything, 
and,  most  important,  brushing  up  on  navigation.  He  gave 
us  all  a  serious  talk  about  our  individual  responsibilities,  at 
the  wheel,  and  such  matters.  Watching  him  to-day,  it  puz- 
zles me  how  he  is  going  to  accomplish  all  he  has  laid  out, 
in  addition  to  his  writing. 

Nakata  and  I  figured  out  additional  little  conveniences 
for  Jack  in  his  stateroom — a  pencil  rack  here,  a  book  rack 
there.  I  took  the  chronometer  time  for  him  when  he  was 
making  observations.  I  have  a  feeling  that  he  has  not  been 
altogether  satisfied  with  the  way  they  have  worked  out. 

No  land  in  sight,  not  even  a  reef.  Wind  increased  until 
Jack  ordered  the  spinnaker  and  headsails  in,  and  in  the 
afternoon  we  sped  under  mainsail  and  spanker. 

We  are  so  full  of  plans.  Adventure  looms  bigger  than 
ever;  and  why  shouldn't  it,  with  our  first  cannibal  islands 
but  a  few  days  away? — and  volcanoes.  I  shall  take  my  vol- 
canoes in  quite  an  easy  matter-of-fact  way  ere  long!  Cap- 
tain Cook — of  course — discovered  Tanna,  with  its  living 
crater,  on  August  4, 1774.  Read  what  he  wrote  about  it  and 
wonder  if  we  of  the  Snark  are  at  all  bored : 

"At  daybreak,  August  4,  we  saw  a  low  island  (Immer)  to 
the  northwestward  .  .  .  having  passed  close  to  it  during  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  319 

night,  and  a  high  one  nearly  east  (Futuna)  at  the  distance 
of  eight  or  nine  leagues.  The  large  island  (Tanna),  toward 
which  we  still  directed  our  course,  extended  from  N.W.  to 
S.E.  and  consisted  of  a  high  range  of  mountains.  Towards 
the  southeastern  extremity,  at  the  end  of  a  secondary  range 
of  hills,  we  discovered  a  volcano,  of  which  we  had  really  seen 
the  fire  at  night.  It  was  a  low  hill,  much  lower  than  any 
in  the  same  range,  and  of  a  conical  shape,  with  a  crater  in 
the  middle.  Its  colour  was  reddish-brown,  consisting  of  a 
heap  of  burnt  stones,  perfectly  barren,  but  it  afforded  a  very 
striking  sight  to  our  eyes.  A  column  of  heavy  smoke  rose 
up  from  time  to  time,  like  a  great  tree,  whose  crown  gradu- 
ally spread  as  it  ascended.  It  is  the  most  powerful  volcano 
in  the  group.  The  whole  island,  except  the  volcano,  is  well 
wooded  and  contains  abundance  of  fine  cocoa-palms ;  its  ver- 
dure, even  at  this  season,  which  is  the  winter  of  these  re- 
gions, was  very  rich  and  beautiful." 

In  1872,  Commander  Markham  visited  the  crater,  which 
was  found  to  be  about  600  feet  in  diameter.  The  officers  of 
H.M.S.  Pearl,  in  1875,  found  its  height  to  be  980  feet.  Mr. 
F.  A.  Campbell  says:  "This  volcano  is  a  splendid  light- 
house ;  there  is  no  mistaking  it ;  the  noise  of  its  eruptions  is 
heard  distinctly  upon  Aneityum,  fully  forty  miles  away." 


Monday,  June  8,  1908. 

The  coolness  of  the  weather  has  made  us  hunt  for  blankets 
at  night  and  warm  raiment  by  day.  I  have  caught  Jack's 
cold,  a  sore  throat,  and  neuralgia  in  the  face. 

There  was  a  sharp  squall  in  the  afternoon,  followed  by 
calm,  and  the  warmth  was  grateful  to  us  with  colds. 

The  day  has  ended  very  joyously  for  Jack.  "Without  go- 
ing into  technical  details — I  should  promptly  be  swamped 
if  I  did — he  has  discovered  why  he  was  going  wrong  in 
working  out  his  sights  since  we  left  Fiji.  He  had  forgotten 
one  very  important  factor:  that  a  degree — sixty  miles — is 
only  sixty  miles  at  the  Equator ;  and  that  the  world  is  smaller 


320  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

and  smaller  around  the  farther  one  is  from  the  Equator. 
Down  here,  in  19°  South  Latitude,  he  had  been  figuring 
sixty  miles  to  a  degree.  As  he  says,  any  one  who  wants  to 
break  all  speed  records  circling  the  world,  has  only  to  sail 
around  in  a  fast  steamer  in  the  latitude  of  Cape  Horn ! 

Just  the  same,  Jack  will  not  feel  entirely  satisfied  until 
day  after  to-morrow,  when,  according  to  his  calculations,  we 
should  see  our  first  high  New  Hebrides  island,  Futuna. 


Tuesday,  June  9,  1908. 

A  shark!  We  lured  him  and  caught  him  with  all  the 
customary  excitement.  He  was  a  five-footer,  and  no  one  who 
ate  a  steak  from  him  at  breakfast  had  any  criticism  to  make, 
either  of  meat  or  cooking. 

Quite  calm  all  forenoon,  with  low  rain-curtains  on  the 
eastern  horizon.  About  3:30  the  wind  came  out  of  the 
southwest,  and  the  sea  made  up.  Barometer  falling. 

We  play  three-handed  Hearts  evenings.  But  Jack  and 
Martin  are  having  everything  their  own  way,  while  I  mourn 
my  bad  luck. 

Wednesday,  June  10,  1908. 

We're  all  a-tiptoe  now,  to  see  how  right  Jack  is.  Land 
must  be  near,  for  there  is  a  lot  of  flotsam  on  the  water,  and 
many  brown-and-white  birds  about.  The  night  was  rough, 
as  the  Snark  shuddered  into  the  big  seas,  but  all  slept  well, 
except  Martin,  who  has  caught  our  cold.  Wind  lessened  to- 
ward sunset,  and  barometer  is  30:10 — which  we  find  is  nor- 
mal here. 

We  have  been  loafing  about  the  cockpit  in  a  burnished 
gold  sunset,  talking  about  our  landfall  to-morrow.  Jack 
smiled  his  wise  little  smile  at  my  jibes,  and  said: 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear;  but  you  watch  my  smoke.  I 
tell  you  that  about  six  to-morrow  morning  you'll  see  the 
prettiest  classic  blue  cone  your  heart  could  desire,  rising  a 
couple  of  thousand  feet  out  of  the  sea  to  the  southwest." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK  321 

He  altered  the  course  so  that  the  Snark  should  pass  Futuna 
ten  miles  to  the  northward,  and  the  last  thing  he  said  on  go- 
ing below,  was  to  Wada: 

"Wada  San,  your  watch  to-morrow  morning,  you  look 
sharp,  you  see  land  on  weather  bow." 


Aboard  the  Snark, 

Port  Resolution,  Tana,  New  Hebrides, 
Thursday,  June  11,  1908. 

We  are  so  proud  of  ourselves.  Not  that  we  mere  mortals 
have  anything  to  be  proud  of,  except  our  godlike  skipper, 
one  J.  L.,  whose  mystical  rites  and  figurings  bore  out  his 
prophecy  and  guided  our  ''frail  barque"  into  this  turbulent 
harbour.  Turbulent  does  not  refer  to  the  waters  of  Port 
Resolution,  but  to  the  bottom  thereof.  Not  long  ago,  inside 
forty  years — large  ships  could  anchor  here,  and  now  only 
vessels  of  our  draft  can  float  free.  Each  new  survey  has 
been  put  out  of  line  by  the  upheavals  of  this  restless  island. 
And  one  is  never  for  a  moment  unconscious  of  its  instability, 
what  of  the  intermittent  dull  rumble  of  the  volcano.  The 
1901  Sailing  Directions  are  the  latest  we  have ;  and  it  would 
be  more  interesting  than  comfortable  for  us  if  it  were  now 
about  time  for  the  bottom  of  the  bay  again  to  heave  up  and 
strand  us  high  and  dry. 

The  Snark  logged  a  steady  six  knots  all  last  night,  but 
Jack  confesses  he  slept  little.  He  kept  waking  and  think- 
ing: "Just  suppose  I  am  wrong,  and  run  into  the  damned 
thing!"  He  went  on  deck  at  three,  during  Henry's  watch. 
The  log  recorded  forty-two  miles.  At  5:30  he  went  up 
again,  and  Wada,  at  the  wheel,  had  seen  no  land.  Jack 
planted  himself  on  the  cockpit  rail  and  gloomily  stared 
southwest.  I  rose  at  six,  and  joined  him  just  an  instant 
after  he  had  spotted  the  dim  but  unmistakable  high  cone. 
And  it  was  exactly  where  it  ought  to  be!  I  could  have 
wept  with  delight,  but  remained  very  still,  for  Jack  was  still, 
too,  although  pleased  clear  through,  with  that  little  half- 


322  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

bashful  smile  he  wears  when  he  sits  under  praise.  It  was  a 
great  moment,  in  its  small  way,  and  it  is  the  small  things 
that  make  great  contentment.  This  was  his  first  unaided 
landfall,  as  captain  and  navigator  of  his  own  little  ship, 
with  the  burden  of  lives  in  his  care. 

We  could  not  go  below,  but  sat  and  dreamed  our 
dreams  in  the  growing  day.  The  west  was  all  silver  and 
rose,  the  east  steel  and  lilac,  with  low  clouds  scrolled  back 
like  Gargantuan  rolls  of  sleeping  mats,  and  to  the  south 
Futuna  grew  like  a  mirage  on  a  clear  horizon,  or  a  Japanese 
painting  on  grey  silk.  The  ocean,  grey  and  dull-glossy,  and 
slow  like  a  flow  of  lava,  seemed  to  show  the  bulge  of  the  earth 
between  us  and  the  island.  The  sun  rose  suddenly,  an 
irregular  molten  nugget  of  intolerable  brilliance  bursting 
from  a  low  grey  cloud  lined  with  gold.  The  cloud-mats  be- 
came bales  of  precious  stuffs  of  undreamed  dyes.  Then  all 
dazzling  hurt  of  colour  and  gilt  toned  into  the  soothing  pearl 
and  blue  of  broad  morning,  the  sea  into  a  rapture  of  azure, 
and  we  all  woke  to  noisy  congratulations  over  our  fair  pros- 
pect, at  a  ripping  good  breakfast  of  hoteakes  and  shark- 
steak. 

Jack  had  said  we  would  pass  Futuna  at  ten  miles.  At 
eight  o'clock  he  took  its  distance  by  the  sextant  and  found 
it  to  be  9.3  miles  away.  It  is  a  steep  truncated  cone,  1931 
feet  high,  ten  miles  around,  and  not  peopled  from  the  New 
Hebrides,  but  by  some  Polynesian  canoe-drift. 

Henry,  aloft,  had  sighted  Tanna  at  seven  o'clock,  dead 
ahead,  and  during  the  day  our  steady  six  knots  brought  us 
into  better  and  better  view  of  the  towering  smoke  of  the  vol- 
cano, Mt.  Yasowa.  To  the  south  we  had  Anehenm,  and  to 
the  north  Aniwa. 

As  we  approached  Tanna,  Jack  bade  me  take  the  wheel, 
sent  Henry  aloft  and  Martin  below  to  be  ready  to  throw  on 
the  propeller.  With  his  glasses  Jack  swept  the  land  for  miles 
but  could  detect  no  opening  in  the  crashing,  unbroken  rock 
coast.  He  took  his  compass  bearings — one  of  Futuna,  an- 
other of  Aniwa,  laid  them  off  on  the  chart,  and  found  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  323 

Snark's  true  course  to  be  straight  for  this  apparent  ruin. 
He  had  me  hold  on  until  we  were  not  more  than  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  from  the  thundering  surf,  much  to  the  concern 
of  Tehei  and  Henry,  who  declared  there  was  no  entrance. 
Then  I  was  directed  to  steer  parallel  with  the  coast.  They 
were  taut  minutes,  I'll  own — taking  orders  over  that  huge 
oily  swell,  so  near  to  swift  destruction.  It  was  not  as  if 
this  were  a  solid  and  dependable  island  of  staid  habits.  Our 
only  information  about  the  reef  passage  was  seven  years  old, 
and  we  did  not  know  what  had  happened  since,  or  when  we 
mii/ht  grind  on  disastrous  bottom. 

But  Jack  kept  on  abreast,  and  presently  we  recognised 
certain  landmarks  described  in  the  Directions — a  yellow 
sandstone  bluff  and  a  pyramidal  rock;  then,  just  where  it 
ought  to  be,  a  narrow  opening  appeared,  but  outside  of  it  a 
line  of  breakers.  Henry  and  Tehei  regarded  it  with  troubled 
eyes.  As  we  ran  on,  still  abreast,  we  saw  that  the  line  of 
white  water  overlapped  the  line  from  the  other  side,  and  a 
narrow  place  showed  where  the  sea  was  calm.  I  put  down 
the  wheel,  Martin  threw  on  the  propeller,  and  to  Jack's 
"Steady!"  and  hand-movements,  I  steered  in,  full  of  re- 
lief, while  the  boys  took  in  sail.  We  rounded  a  little  point 
and  saw  the  mission  station,  and  when  Wada,  at  the  lead- 
line, reported  "Two  fathoms!"  I  put  the  wheel  down,  Mar- 
tin shut  off  the  engine,  and  the  anchor-chain  grated 
through  the  hawse-hole.  It  was  five  o'clock.  Henry 
gravely  paced  a  few  measures  of  a  hula,  Nakata  pirouetted 
and  flashed  his  teeth,  and  then  we  were  diverted  by  the 
things  that  were  putting  out  to  us  from  all  directions. 

Tlif-y  looked  like  an  all-star  troupe  of  comedians  made  up 
for  a  minstrel  show.  All  were  undersized,  except  one,  a 
Futuna  boy  who  was  tall  and  large  and  handsome,  with 
laughing  eyes  wide-set,  and  a  mouth  all  smiling  Polynesian 
curves.  One  Tanese,  a  spry,  slender  soul,  with  near-set 
black  eyes,  wore  sideburn  whiskers  combined  with  a  fierce 
moustache.  Another,  a  holy-mannered,  fanatical-eyed  elder 
of  the  church  on  the  hill,  had  a  fringe  of  thin  black  whis- 


324  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

kers  halo-ing  his  rotund  countenance,  the  lower  part  of  the 
fringe  growing  beneath  the  chin  in  a  way  that  made  him 
resemble  an  American  backwoods  farmer  gone  wrong.  But 
he  proved  a  lovable  chap.  The  rest  of  the  men  were  all  indi- 
viduals of  one  kind  or  another  of  striking  personality ;  most 
of  them  spoke  English  of  sorts,  and  all  were  connoisseurs  of 
sea-biscuit  and  tobacco. 

And  yet,  five  miles  back  in  the  bush,  the  savages  are  un- 
reclaimed ancestor-worshippers  who  eat  one  another  to  this 
day,  although  Mr.  Watt,  the  missionary,  assures  us  that  an 
European  is  perfectly  safe  anywhere  on  Tanna.  It  is  thirty 
years  since  a  white  man  was  killed  here,  and  he  was  shot, 
and  not  kai-kai'd.  He  died  in  the  house  where  Mr.  Watt 
lives. 

From  the  little  station  in  a  bight  of  the  bay,  came  the 
Scotch  trader,  Mr.  Wyllie,  with  gifts  of  fruit,  and  we  kept 
him  for  supper.  He  is  a  vast  ashen  man,  with  ashen  brown 
eyes  very  wide  apart,  ashen  hair,  mobile  ashen  mouth  and 
a  classic  ashen  nose.  He  looks  as  if  the  tropics  have  burned 
him  to  this  ashen  hue. 

Mr.  Brown,  a  Christian  native,  "Joseph  Brown,  please," 
elder  of  the  Presbytery,  came  out  with  a  message  from  Mr. 
Watt,  that  owing  to  prayers  ashore,  the  supper  hour,  and 
the  lateness  of  our  arrival,  he  and  his  wife  had  not  come 
out,  and  hoped  we  could  return  with  the  bearer.  Tehei, 
blissful  and  self-conscious,  ran  the  launch  for  us.  As  we 
climbed  up  the  perfumed  twilight  bank,  a  woman  spoke  to 
our  guide  softly  and  inquiringly  from  a  gloom  of  bananas, 
then  fled  before,  white-robed,  laughing  and  calling  back 
tantalisingly  to  him  in  a  love-toned  voice. 

Port  Resolution,  June  12,  1908. 

There's  certainly  something  disjointed  about  it — so  lovely 
a  land,  and  so  low  an  order  of  inhabitants.  The  beautiful 
harbour,  like  a  pale  flawed  emerald,  reminds  us  of  Taiohae, 
the  painted-scene  walls  farther  removed.  Distant  classic 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  325 

Mount  Mirren  rises  opposite  the  narrow  reef  entrance,  and 
the  verdant  flanking  hills  fold  down  on  either  side  —  a  most 
gratifying  composition  for  a  picture.  The  missionary's 
dwelling  is  on  Point  Resolution,  and  across  the  narrow  bay 
boils  a  hot  salt-water  geyser,  whence  Mr.  Watt  and  his  fam- 
ily derive  their  bath  water,  in  barrels  per  native  canoe. 
This  may  be  the  very  geyser  where  vanquished  foes  once  were 
parboiled  and  devoured  —  a  different  way  of  preparing  ''long 


And  the  natives:  As  I  write,  near  by  but  not  too  near 
(they  may  be  clean  but  they  don't  look  it),  squat  a  half- 
dozen  of  the  strangest  human  beings  I  ever  beheld  outside 
a  feeble-minded  institution.  We  had  heard  they  were  the 
lowest  of  the  Melanesians,  but  they  excel  all  expectations. 
Bodies  are  thin  and  unbeautiful,  with  bulges  in  the  wrong 
places  ;  legs  show  thin  and  crooked,  and  their  generally  evil, 
low-browed  malformed  Black-Papuan  faces  are  curiously  re- 
pulsive. One  old  fellow,  a  trifle  less  unpleasant  than  the 
rest,  has  an  expression  that  is  intended  to  be  benevolent,  on 
a  nut-wrinkly  face  with  unsecret,  sky-turned  nostrils,  the 
eyes  most  remarkable  with  the  vacillating  intentness  of  a 
monkey,  while  he  endeavours  to  compose  his  attention  on 
the  typewriter,  at  which  I  have  been  working  on  deck.  He 
is  quite  the  nearest  to  a  chimpanzee  that  I  ?ve  ever  seen.  The 
gaze  focuses,  wavers,  comes  back,  and  his  lips  narrow  and 
widen  with  an  undeveloped  attempt  at  a  human  smile.  The 
only  way  to  fix  an  image  like  this,  is  to  sit  right  down  and 
write. 

Another  old  baboon  is  titillating  in  a  hysterical  rising- 
and-falling  squat,  aft  where  Jack  is  showing  him  a  kaleido- 
scope. Nervous  little  lean  brown  arms  of  others  are  reach- 
ing for  the  thing,  and  there  are  lingering  low  cries  over  the 
changing  figures.  Jack  looks  a  white  giant  among  them. 
"And  God  made  them!"  he  passed  across  their  kinky  heads 
to  me  just  now  —  vast  contrast  to  the  chiselled  heads  of 
Fiji  and  Samoa.  Their  talk  matches  their  shifting  eyes  — 
nervous,  crafty  little  short  sounds,  and  no  arresting  words. 


326  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

About  twenty  different  dialects  are  spoken  in  the  New 
Hebrides,  sometimes  several  on  the  same  island.  As  no 
steamers  can  enter  here  (they  must  lie  outside  if  any  one 
wants  to  land  in  a  boat),  the  island  is  seldom  visited.  So 
we  and  our  foreign  vessel  are  a  whole  vaudeville  show  to 
these  near-Simians.  There  is  nothing  even  "nominally 
Christian "  in  the  appearance  of  this  gathering.  New 
Hebrideans  are  all  looked  upon  as  treacherous,  although  the 
Tanese  are  milder  than  most.  In  the  history  of  the  islands, 
when  the  missionaries  treated  with  the  natives,  the  latter 
would  only  go  so  far  as  to  promise  that  they  would  not  harm 
them  with  their  own  hands;  then  they  would  hire  other  na- 
tives to  do  the  murdering — a  grim  observance  of  the  letter 
of  the  agreement.  Natives  of  the  northern  islands  have 
been  especially  ferocious  toward  intruders,  and  the  list  of 
slaughtered  missionaries  is  a  long  one.  Mr.  Watt  has  quite 
a  congregation  in  his  mission,  but  a  good  portion  have  the 
Futuna  Polynesian  strain. 

Mr.  Watt  is  a  big  man  of  sixty,  kindly  and  obliging,  and 
has  already  this  morning  added  to  last  night's  offering 
of  pleasant  fruits  and  vegetables.  He  also  offered  us  the 
use  of  his  cool  dark-room.  Mrs.  Watt  is  his  second  wife — 
a  buxom  woman  of  forty.  They  have  two  young  children, 
and  all  reside  in  harmony  in  a  comfortable  house  almost 
in  the  shadow  of  an  imposing  white  monument  that  marks 
the  green  resting-place  of  the  first  Mrs.  Watt — in  the  very 
house  garden.  The  present  Mrs.  Watt  called  our  attention 
to  it  on  our  stroll.  Mr.  Watt,  from  whom  we  naturally 
expected  to  drink  endless  absorbing  reminiscences  of  early 
precarious  years  on  Tana,  either  does  not  care  to  talk,  or 
else  has  no  imagination.  Perhaps  he  is  like  Conrad's  good 
skipper  in  Typhoon,  who  entered  "Dirty  Weather"  in 
his  log,  after  passing  through  the  core  of  a  great  circular 
storm. 

Later.  .  .  .  After  another  visit  at  the  Watts'  to-day, 
where  we  were  refreshed  with  rose-apples,  sour-sop  and 
sweet-sop,  cocoanut  water,  and  saw  breadfruit  and  banyan 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  327 

and  banana  trees  in  abundance,  we  went  to  the  head  of  the 
little  three-quarter-mile  bay  in  Mr.  Wyllie's  flat-bottomed 
skiff  and  visited  him  in  his  store,  on  a  tiny  blue  reedy  la- 
goon surrounded  by  dense  tropical  vegetation.  An  old 
paralysed  black  heathen  sat  on  the  beach  where  we  landed, 
and  looked  at  me  and  my  camera  with  sullen,  unsympa- 
thetic gaze — sans  fear,  sans  interest,  sans  understanding, 
sans  everything.  It  would  seem  that  the  only  idea  these 
people  ever  possessed  was  to  kill.  With  that  ambition 
quenched  by  the  joint  French  and  Australian  colonies,  they 
resolve  into  mere  nonentities.  Evidently  all  their  craft 
went  to  the  one  passion;  and  their  general  lack  of  clever 
house-building  or  mat-weaving,  or  ornament-devising,  would 
bear  this  out.  Mr.  Watt  pointed  to  a  coarse  mat  on  his 
floor:  "I  taught  a  Futuna  woman  how  to  make  it,"  he 
said,  "and  the  Futuna  woman  was  largely  Polynesian/' 
Simple,  suspicious,  blood-mad  people  they  were.  Robbed  of 
their  natural  quarry,  they  are  rapidly  decreasing.  Mr 
Frank  Stanton,  a  younger  trader  with  Mr.  Wyllie,  told  us 
to-day  that  right  before  you,  in  apparently  ordinary  con- 
versation, they  can  plot  to  take  your  life,  using  sentiments 
already  agreed  upon,  about  common  things.  This  came  out 
after  a  little  incident  that  happened  at  the  store.  I  was 
imitating  cat-calls  to  mystify  the  fox  terrier,  and  a  small 
Tanese  boy  in  a  group  outside  elected  to  think  I  was  mak- 
ing fun  of  him  and  his  companions.  You  should  have  seen 
the  black  looks  of  the  murderous  mites !  Many  a  white  head 
has  been  lost  for  less  offence. 

.  .  .  The  bay  is  the  tender  milky  green  of  absinthe  with 
little  vagrant  flaws  of  wind  ruffling  the  wavelets  with  spar- 
kling white.  A  softly  flooding  tide  rocks  my  boat  of 
dreams,  and  the  air  is  full  of  intangible  lights  and  subtle 
rainbow  tints  as  sunset  begins  its  painting  of  land  and 
sea.  It  is  good  to  be  alive,  on  the  highway  of  the  sea,  with 
its  crowding  waves  upon  the  backs  of  waves ;  and  it  is  good 
to  be  snugly  cradled  at  anchor  inside  the  silver-rimmed 
breakers. 


328  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


Port  Resolution,   Saturday,  June  13,  1908. 

Late  afternoon,  and  I  am  dangling  my  feet  in  the  water 
over  the  side  of  a  skiff,  to  rest  them  after  the  unwonted 
heating  and  blistering  they  have  had  tramping  to  the  vol- 
cano, six  miles  away. 

This  morning  we  were  roused  early  by  natives  dynamiting 
fish  near  by  in  canoes.  Immediately  following  the  blast, 
men  dive  overboard  and  bring  up  the  stunned  fish,  while 
others  spear  the  fish  from  the  boat  as  they  float  up. 

While  we  were  packing  lunch  for  our  trek  into  the 
"bush,"  the  missionary  came  out  with  drinking  cocoanuts, 
lemons,  and  two  wild  ducks,  which  made  Jack  very  desir- 
ous for  supper  time.  Mr.  Watt  was  accompanied  by  two 
Aniwa  housemaids,  who  wanted  to  see  the  Snark. 

One  of  our  two  thin-flanked  Tanese  guides  was  a  "  re- 
turned Queenslander " — a  native  sent  back  from  the  plan- 
tations when  Australia  ''went  white."  He  could  not  be 
convinced  that  the  SnarJc  is  not  recruiting  plantation 
labourers. 

Each  new  wonder  island  I  have  thought  the  last  word  in 
beauty;  but  to-day's  impressions  eclipsed  all  others.  We 
plunged  into  an  abrupt  wilderness  of  trees  and  hanging, 
creeping,  trailing,  veiling  things  so  green,  so  spectacular  that 
I  was  soon  tired  of  exclaiming,  and  moved  in  a  trance. 
There  is  almost  as  much  child-time  romance  and  glamour 
to  me  in  a  banyan  as  in  a  volcano  or  an  atoll.  And  to- 
day I  tangled  in  the  incredible  downward  tentacles  of  in- 
numerable real,  true  banyans  that  covered  broad  spaces  of 
the  rich  earth.  Along  the  way  grew  little  odourless  white 
violet-things,  and  a  running  vine  with  a  violet  leaf  and  red 
berries,  and  there  was  a  hardy  vine  with  a  morning-glory 
sort  of  blossom,  pink-purple  and  white.  It  lies  on  the 
ground,  clinging,  and  wickedly  trips  a  tired  foot.  Another 
vine  we  called  a  "live  wire,"  for  it  stings  to  sudden  cau- 
tion. 

We  pushed  aside  giant  brakes,  and  made  our  way  under 


Houseboys   at   PenndufTryn 


A  Dream  of  the  Southern  Seas 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  329 

the  finest  tree-ferns  we  have  ever  seen,  even  in  Jamaica — 
and  one  heavier  and  darker  green  variety  here  has  a  tall 
trunk  spotted  leopard-like,  the  spots  being  round  indenta- 
tions at  close  range,  and  the  fronds  look  as  if  stamped  from 
deep-napped  green  plush.  These  are  so  abundant  in  places 
that,  as  Jack  remarked,  "One  can't  see  tree  ferns  for  tree 
ferns."  There  is  a  fine  cane  growing  here,  too,  something 
like  the  Marquesan,  and  it  flowers  and  feathers  out  like  pam- 
pas ;  and  one  species  of  palm  showed  bright  and  hard  in  the 
soft  general  green,  with  big  fronds  apparently  clipped 
squarely  off  short  of  their  legitimate  points.  Strange  para- 
sitic, clambering,  choking  things  veiled  the  forms  of  the  for- 
est, and  one  of  them  fairly  furred  the  limbs  of  the  large 
trees. 

The  eerie  stillness  of  the  jungle  was  shattered  now  and 
again  by  explosive  grunts  of  startled  pigs,  which,  although 
nominally  wild,  are  the  known  property  of  various  natives. 
In  fact,  the  whole  jungle  is  a  wild-pig  run,  the  ground  every- 
where, under  the  larger  trees,  thoroughly  snout-ploughed. 
Trudging  over  the  black-rooted,  bountiful  earth,  we  were 
aware  of  the  slow  flight  of  flying-foxes  overhead,  softly, 
heavily  flapping  their  velvet  wings.  And  at  irregular  in- 
tervals would  come  the  growl  and  rumble  and  shock  of  vol- 
canic explosions. 

A  big  father  of  banyans  marked  where  we  should  strike 
up  hill  to  the  right,  and  shortly  we  were  in  an  altogether 
different  environment — volcanic  sandy  lands  of  coarse 
grass,  interspersed  with  hot  steam-geyser  sections  where  we 
walked  on  a  crunching  crust.  Once  I  broke  through  to  a 
boot-top  in  natural  red  paint — red-hot,  too,  it  seemed  to  me 
— and  simultaneously  burst  a  deafening  reverberation  from 
the  crater  as  if  I  had  pressed  a  button.  I  wasted  no  time 
getting  that  boot  off.  Coming  home,  Jack  stepped  into  a 
nasty  red-paint  hole  and  the  steam  rushed  forth  so  hot  and 
strong  that  my  helping  hand  was  scalded.  The  guide  pointed 
out  a  spot  where  a  white  man  had  heart-failure.  I  couldn't 
blame  him,  if  his  heart  was  weak,  for  I  was  unable  to  control 


330  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  sting  of  nervous  fright  from  heart  to  finger-tips,  every 
time  the  monster  let  loose  that  awful  roar. 

Off  to  the  side  we  glimpsed  pretty  sandy  sinks,  and  little 
round  fairyland  valleys  where  the  trees  were  ferns,  and 
threw  lovely  lacy  shadows.  The  first  views  of  the  volcano, 
from  some  trick  of  atmosphere,  were  very  unreal,  and 
seemed  an  endless  distance  away.  From  the  crater  rose  a 
milky-opalescent  quiver  of  smoke,  swirled  by  pearly  puffs 
from  some  special  impulse  at  the  depths.  There  was  some- 
thing uncanny  about  our  progress.  We  traversed  a  little 
plain  of  iron-coloured  sand,  wind-rippled,  bounded  ahead 
by  a  rose-bed  bank  where  mocking  voices  repeated  our 
every  word,  word  for  word,  but  changing  the  inflections — 
spiritless,  bodiless,  the  like  of  which  we  had  never  heard  be- 
fore nor  shall  ever  hear  again. 

I  did  not  know  our  guide  "boy"  was  plum-coloured,  un- 
til I  got  him  into  surroundings  of  plummy-brownish  old 
lava.  Flesh,  scant  raiment,  and  lava-lava,  all  were  plum — 
even  his  eyes  plum-purple.  Once,  returning,  he  went  ahead 
down  a  narrow  gulch  defile  where  all  the  ferns  were  dead 
and  red-brown  and  touched  to  Etruscan  gold  by  the  late 
sun,  and  the  half-wild  creature  was  likewise  gilded. 

We  did  not  feel  the  altitude — it  is  less  than  a  thousand 
feet  to  the  top  of  the  crater,  which  is  nearly  two  miles 
around  by  now.  Panting  up  the  creaky  final  steep  of 
coarse  sand,  to  the  crusty  edge,  Jack  and  I  speculated  as 
to  just  exactly  what  our  judgment  would  be  to  do  if  the 
earth  should  suddenly  shake  and  crumble  in  a  real  eruption, 
as  it  has  done  before  and  might  do  again.  Jack  said,  "I'd 
grab  your  hand  and  hike  down  the  slope  as  fast  as  God'd 
let  me!"  We  had  but  just  gained  the  ragged  summit  and 
made  ready  to  peer  into  the  maw  as  the  smoke  should  clear, 
when  there  was  the  most  infernal  crash  and  burst  and  shake 
of  ground.  Without  a  thought  but  escape,  we  just  exactly 
"grabbed"  hands  and  went  down  that  fearful,  reverberat- 
ing, grinding  incline  on  our  flying  heels  for  a  dozen  leaps  or 
so,  until  we  suddenly  realised  what  a  scream  our  involun- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK  331 

tary  action  was.  We  halted,  looked  at  each  other,  and 
began  to  laugh.  And  we  laughed  and  laughed  until  we 
cried,  and  sat  down  to  laugh,  and  rolled  with  laughter,  and 
laughed  all  the  way  up  again.  Partially  we  were  com- 
forted by  the  fact  that  our  two  brown  companions  had  fled 
faster  and  farther  than  we,  and  they  have  been  here  count- 
less times.  One  of  them,  indeed,  refused  to  come  back ;  but 
the  other,  with  a  long  feather  in  his  wind-tossed,  scraggly 
wool,  looked  no  end  picturesque  on  the  sharp  edge,  with  the 
far  wall  of  the  crater,  smoky-dim,  for  a  background. 

This  time  we  were  not  to  be  driven  away  by  any  pyro- 
technics of  old  Yasowa,  and  waited  hand  in  hand  at  the 
brink  for  the  void  of  smoke  to  dissipate.  And  then,  we 
gazed  down  unspeakable  depths  and  glimpsed  a  ragged  red 
ridge  losing  itself  in  the  lower  abyss  of  fumes  and  smoke. 
Dore  would  have  revelled  in  it.  Following  around  the  crisp 
and  crackling  edge  where  the  sand  fell  away  from  the  hard, 
old  lava,  we  began  to  realise  with  grim  interest  that  our 
foothold  was  the  uncertain  roof  of  the  main  vent  of  the  vol- 
cano, which  curved  down  and  back  underneath.  We  could 
make  out  two  holes,  with  a  saddle-ridge  between  us  and  the 
smaller  hole  on  .the  opposite  side  of  the  crater.  Now  one 
would  explode,  now  the  other,  and  rocks  would  fly  up 
swiftly,  growing  larger  and  larger  to  our  vision,  then  sink 
apparently  slowly,  softly,  or  run  down  declivities  where 
they  had  been  shot.  White  smoke  and  steam  would  fill 
the  great  hot  well,  and  we  would  sit  and  wait  for  it  to 
clear.  The  only  way  to  describe  the  sound  is  to  suggest  a 
titanic  grumbling,  gnashing  being  trying  to  free  itself  from 
pent  chambers  of  earth;  or,  less  fancifully — cannon  of  all 
sizes  and  sounds,  accompanied  by  musketry;  then  add  to 
both  fancies  a  violent  thunder-storm  breaking  over  the  deaf- 
ening clatter  of  a  busy  day  in  a  boiler  factory. 

Our  lunch  was  eaten  sitting  with  backs  to  the  crater,  and 
we  never  lost  the  rhythm  of  mastication  when  the  dogs  let 
loose  in  the  kennels  underground.  From  here  we  could  see 
the  green  world  of  island  stretching  out  across  blue-shadowy 


332  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

valleys  to  Mirren  and  the  other  high  peaks.  Tana  is  only 
seventeen  miles  long  by  seven  in  width,  so  we  gained  a 
comprehensive  impression,  with  the  blue-flushed  horizon 
ringing  us  three  quarters  around. 

I  was  a  footsore  sailor  as  we  followed  down  the  mountain 
behind  our  savage  guide  with  his  triumphant  cock-feather 
atop,  and  his  swinging,  slashing  bush-knife  clearing  short 
cuts  through  dense  growths. 

The  Watts  bade  us  in  for  tea ;  and  now  I  am  going  to  climb 
aboard  and  ask  my  gentle  friend  Tehei  to  lomi-lomi  these 
broken  ankles;  for  to-morrow  is  another  tramp,  to  a  native 
village  in  the  mountains.  Jack's  feet  are  tired  also;  but  he 
is  not  making  so  much  fuss  about  it. 

Sunday,  June  14,  1908. 

We  are  tired  again  to-night,  and  Martin  also,  for  we 
walked  and  climbed  a  twelve  miles  round  trip  to  the  bush 
village.  The  latter,  in  addition  to  scratches,  is  fuming  be- 
cause the  Reverend  Watt  quietly  but  firmly  declined  to  lend 
his  dark-room  on  the  Sabbath,  because  of  the  deleterious 
effect  it  would  exercise  upon  his  congregation.  Martin, 
muttering  that  he  never  heard  of  a  native  who  wanted  to 
work  on  any  day  of  the  week,  no  matter  what  the  example, 
went  to  developing  the  day's  films  in  the  hot  Snark  bath- 
room; result,  mostly  failures.  We  are  all  heartbroken,  for 
the  pictures  we  took  of  the  queer  hairy  human  animals  in 
the  bush  would  have  been  invaluable  to  us.  Martin  will 
never  forgive  the  missionary. 

Jack  started  the  day  with  a  hair-cut,  Henry  at  the  helm 
— I  mean  the  scissors.  I  put  tapes  around  my  lame  ankles, 
and  laced  my  walking  boots  tighter  than  yesterday.  Said 
boots,  a  sailor  shirt,  broad  hat,  khaki  riding  breeks,  and  a 
22  automatic  rifle  for  sport,  made  up  my  equipment.  Mar- 
tin remarked  with  a  smiling  eye  that  Mrs.  London  looked 
"very  pantesque  this  morning."  Which  rather  personal 
observation  may  be  indulgently  allowed,  for  Martin  has  ever 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  333 

been  the  soul  of  impersonal  comradeship  and  delicacy 
toward  me.  Indeed,  the  tacit  taking  of  me  as  "one  of  the 
boys"  has  been  one  of  the  most  charming  things  about  the 
spirit  aboard  the  Snark — combined  always  with  the  ready 
hand  to  help  and  protect  "the  best  man  aboard/'  as  Dutch 
Herrmann  would  say.  I  remember,  one  time  when  I  was 
railing  to  Jack  about  the  way  Captain  Warren  had  thrown 
us  down,  Jack  chided: 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  don't  forget  one  thing:  he  was  al- 
ways good  to  you,  not  only  in  his  personal  treatment,  but 
in  turning  over  to  you  any  loot  of  any  sort — whether  it  was 
a  mat  some  one  had  given  him,  or  a  pair  of  gold-lipped 
pearl  shells,  or  a  pearl." 

.  .  .  We  got  away  at  nine,  this  time  in  care  of  Mr.  Stanton 
— a  true-blue-eyed,  serious  mannered,  clean  young  Colonial, 
the  type  of  earnest,  self-respectful  Englishman,  made  of 
grit — so  much  so  that  he  can  never  grow  fat.  He  has  suf- 
fered terribly  from  the  malignant,  devastating  malarial 
fever  that  all  have  to  reckon  with  who  dally  long  in  Me- 
lanesia. 

The  country  traversed  yesterday  was  quite  unpeopled 
so  far  as  we  could  see.  But  to-day  we  passed  occasional 
slovenly  grass  huts,  some  of  them  enclosed  in  pandanus- 
plaited  fences — the  only  decent  workmanship  of  any  kind 
that  we  saw.  The  women  were  deadly  unfeminine — nearly 
resembling  the  men  in  face  and  voice,  ageless,  sexless,  dirty ; 
and  they  and  their  men  displayed  an  ungracious  inhospi- 
tality  that  made  us  think  vividly  and  lovingly  of  the  Soci- 
eties and  the  Samoas.  In  spite  of  the  scant  differentiation 
between  the  sexes,  these  men  are  notoriously  jealous  of  their 
females,  and  special  scrutiny  of  the  latter  on  our  part  was 
met  by  ugly  scowls.  If  any  savage  smiled,  for  any  reason, 
it  was  momentary,  monkeyish,  and  instantly  over. 

Our  way  led  to  the  left  this  time,  and  shortly  I  was  forg- 
ing ahead,  for  I  love  to  go  first  along  a  trail,  first  in  a  new 
vista  with  a  sense  of  breaking  my  own  trail.  I  fear  there  is 
little  of  the  burden-bearing,  heel-obedient  squaw  in  my 


334  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

make-up !  We  travelled  beautiful  ferny  trails  where  we 
had  to  use  both  arms  to  press  aside  the  enormous  green 
fronds.  But  the  woods  were  not  so  spectacular  as  on  the 
volcano  side,  and  many  a  time  Jack  and  I  could  nurse  a 
homesick  feeling  on  the  familiarity  of  this  scene  or  that.  I 
even  discovered  five-finger  ferns. 

Flying-foxes  drifted  aloft,  and  we  heard  querulous  little 
chatterings  among  parroquets  we  never  glimpsed  in  the  thick 
foliage ;  and  there  were  myriads  of  wee  green  canaries  flitting 
and  twittering  among  the  lower  leaves,  and  strange  small 
black  and  white  birds  with  snubby  heads. 

The  chief  articles  of  export  of  the  New  Hebrides  are 
copra,  small  shipments  of  coffee,  bananas,  maize,  sago,  and, 
in  latter  days,  diminishing  quantities  of  whale  oil,  sandal- 
wood,  and  beche  de  mer.  Traces  of  gold,  nickel  and  cop- 
per have  been  found,  and  Martin  spied  something  that  he 
declared  was  coal.  We  saw  copra  drying  on  patches  of 
volcanic  rocky  ground  hot  in  the  sun. 

When  we  sat  to  rest  in  the  shade,  Jack  and  Mr.  Stanton 
talked  about  wars,  in  Korea  and  South  Africa,  and 
swapped  experiences. 

It  is  like  wandering  in  Eden,  to  trip  along  in  the  wilder 
parts  of  this  blossoming  isle.  As  we  began  to  ascend  moun- 
tain fastnesses  to  the  village,  I  wondered  if  Jack's  and  mine 
were  the  first  boots  up  the  uncanny  runway,  for  Stanton 
went  barefoot,  and  Martin  emulated  him.  This  runway 
was  a  matchless  approach  to  a  mountain  stronghold,  for  the 
narrow  perpendicular  sides  were  above  our  heads,  and  the 
point  where  we  emerged  in  a  high  meadow  containing  the 
village,  would  spell  unavoidable  death  for  every  single  per- 
son who  should  show  himself,  were  the  natives  hostile.  Stan- 
ton  had  assured  us  of  our  safety  from  any  tricks,  but  based 
the  assurance  upon  the  fact  that  he  knew  the  head  man,  who 
was  in  debt  to  him  for  certain  favours,  and  we  were  ex- 
pected. Just  the  same,  when  we  came  in  sight  there  was  an 
alert  movement  ahead,  of  all  the  figures  on  the  short  fine 
grass  where  they  lay  about,  and  subdued  exclamations  from 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  335 

some  grimy  hovels  of  grass,  mere  roofs  without  walls,  off 
to  the  right  where  we  caught  sight  of  the  disappearing 
backs  of  women. 

I  had  never  seen  animal-hairy  humans,  and  the  score  or 
so  of  naked  men  that  gathered  shiftily  and  uneasily  to  meet 
us,  were  for  the  most  part  very  fuzzy  indeed.  It  was  al- 
most a  fine  black  fur  that  matted  their  chests  and  limbs. 
They  were  better  formed  and  fuller-fleshed  than  the  salt- 
water natives,  and  their  faces  showed  more  diversity  and 
character.  It  was  rather  startling  to  note  that  some  of 
the  faces  were  painted — strange  countenances  reminiscent 
of  old  civilisations — a  notable  sprinkling  of  a  Phoeni- 
cian type;  a  decided  suggestion  of  the  Hindoo;  and  one 
bearded  old  patriarch,  despite  unspeakable  encrustations  of 
filth  (" Sty-baked' '  Martin  put  it)  was  a  veritable  Moses  of 
the  old  Masters — in  miniature,  to  be  sure. 

After  a  protracted  pow-wow  on  Stanton's  part  with  his 
chief-friend  and  the  council,  it  was  granted  that  we  might 
photograph  the  men — but  not  the  women.  Any  attempt  of 
Jack  or  Martin  to  take  a  snap  at  them  where  they  crept 
among  the  houses  to  look  at  us,  was  met  with  undisguised 
scowls  and  mutterings.  I  was  allowed  to  approach  the  low 
plaited  fence,  but  when  I  trained  my  pocket  kodak,  there  was 
an  instant  disturbance  behind  me  among  the  men.  So  I 
smiled  and  nodded  submission  and  kept  the  lens  in  the  same 
direction,  but  turned  my  own  side  toward  the  women, 
snapping  them  while  I  enthusiastically  admired  the  pros- 
pect up-mountain. 

The  women  were  shyly  friendly  with  me,  from  over  the 
plaited  screen,  and  did  a  great  deal  of  giggling.  The 
chances  are  they  had  never  seen  a  white  woman,  as  it 
is  very  unlikely  that  they  are  allowed  far  from  the  village, 
and  we  are  told  that  no  white  woman  has  been  in  the  village 
before  me.  The  babies  were  round  and  dimpled  brown  cu- 
pids,  their  ear-lobes  scooped  out  and  filled  with  hair-pins, 
bone  rings,  safety  pins — all  sorts  of  " truck"  brought  home 
by  the  foraging  fathers;  and  strings  of  shells  girdled  their 


336  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

pot-bellied  little  loins.  These  people  are  polygamous,  and 
the  wives  are  equally  fond  of  one  another's  children,  even 
in  the  same  plural  household.  One  old  lady,  fat  and  black 
and  fuzzy,  was  the  picture  of  a  southern  mammy. 

But  the  gathered  clan  of  obscene,  hairy  men  on  the  grassy 
meadow-slope,  their  only  covering  a  string  or  a  strap,  and 
a  wrapping  or  bandage  of  astounding  phallic  advertise- 
ment, was  a  far  wilder  sight.  They  were  so  uneasy,  so  shift- 
ing— lying  down,  getting  up,  moving  here  and  there  and 
back  again,  like  a  band  of  monkeys,  and  never  turning  their 
backs  to  us — a  trick  of  caution  that  white  men  would  do 
well  to  imitate  in  this  corner  of  the  world.  We  were  quite 
aware  that  our  unwilling  hosts  were  armed,  too,  with  spears 
and  bows  and  arrows,  and  they  evidenced  their  conscious- 
ness of  our  rifles  by  undisguised  covetousness  of  them. 

We  did  not  stay  long,  and  I  for  one  breathed  easier  when 
we  were  clear  of  the  descending  runway  and  in  the  open  once 
more.  We  lunched  under  a  banyan,  took  a  good  rest,  prac- 
tised with  our  rifles  on  tiny  leaves  on  top  branches  of  high 
trees,  and  reached  the  traders'  store  in  good  time  to  pick 
up  Mr.  Wyllie  for  supper  aboard  the  yacht. 


Aboard  the  Snark, 
Tana  to  Efate,  New  Hebrides, 
Monday,  June  15,  1908. 

At  three  this  afternoon  Martin  started  the  engine,  I  went  to 
the  wheel,  Henry  to  his  post  at  masthead,  and  Jack  forward 
to  con.  We  had  intended  to  put  in  at  Wysissi  Bay,  a  few 
miles  from  Port  Resolution,  but  changed  our  minds  after 
we  got  outside,  and  set  our  course  for  the  port  of  Vila,  on 
Efate,  or  Sandwich  Island. 

This  forenoon  Martin,  Nakata  and  our  two  Polynesians 
took  the  volcano  trip,  all  barefoot.  Wada  did  not  go,  as  he 
has  developed  a  sore  on  his  leg,  from  a  cut  he  got  on  the 
coral — like  the  ones  Jack  had.  They  are  known  as  Fiji  sores, 
and  Solomon  Island  sores,  so  the  doctor  in  Suva  told  us. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  337 

Some  one  called  them  yaws,  but  Stanton  says  yaws  are  a 
much  worse  thing.  One's  skin  is  thin  and  tender  after  a 
while  in  the  tropics,  and  the  least  abrasion,  say  from  scratch- 
ing a  mosquito  bite,  is  apt  to  become  infected,  most  likely  by 
flies,  whereupon  trouble  begins,  and  the  difficulty  of  healing 
is  appalling.  Jack  and  I  had  been  so  alarmed  about  his 
sores  that  we  had  privately  talked  about  laying  up  the 
Snark  in  Fiji  and  taking  steamer  to  Australia  and  the  doc- 
tors. But  Jack  is  not  one  to  be  idle  while  he  waits.  He 
read  up  in  our  little  medical  library  aboard,  found  nothing 
like  his  trouble,  closed  the  books,  opened  the  glass  doors  of 
the  medicine  chest,  and  selected  the  most  violent  enemy  he 
could  locate  with  which  to  fight  these  malignant  and  active 
ulcers.  "Corrosive  sublimate "  sounded  more  fiery  and  radi- 
cal than  anything  else,  and  he  started  dosing  the  five  sores  on 
his  instep  and  ankles  (where  he  had  scratched  Samoan  mos- 
quito bites)  with  wet  dressings  of  a  solution  of  corrosive  sub- 
limate, occasionally  alternating  with  peroxide  of  hydrogen. 
Four  of  the  ulcers  were  entirely  well  by  the  time  we  reached 
Fiji,  and  the  last  is  almost  closed  up — all  of  them  thoroughly 
healed  from  the  inside  out. 

There  are  myriads  of  flies  in  Tana,  and  many  of  the  na- 
tives who  came  aboard  had  ulcers,  so  it  is  probable  Wada 
got  his  infection  by  these  means.  Jack  has  warned  him, 
and  Martin  and  the  others,  to  use  antiseptics  on  the  fresh 
abrasions  they  got  on  the  volcano  trip,  but  they  do  not  seem 
impressed.  I  am  not  afraid,  for  I  practically  never  * '  catch ' ' 
anything. 

...  I  was  up  early  this  morning,  in  time  to  see  the  sun 
gild  the  tops  of  the  green,  green  hills,  and  light  up  the 
heliotrope  of  the  bay.  Mt.  Yasowa  boomed  dully,  and  na- 
tives were  dynamiting  fish.  Henry  and  Tehei  went  out  to 
get  some  for  our  breakfast,  and  came  back  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear,  with  small  mackerel,  and  a  long  fish  with  a  red- 
tipped  sword  on  its  nose.  A  bevy  of  low-chattering,  watch- 
ful naked  cannibals  paddled  out  aboard,  and  one  of  them, 
who  seemed  a  wag  among  them,  a  canny-uncanny  wizened 


338  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

ape,  insisted  that  he  had  seen  Jack  before,  to  our  gales  of 
glee. 

Everybody  came  to  see  us  off,  and  brought  basketfuls  of 
fruit  and  vegetables ;  but  so  far  as  the  kindly  Reverend  Watt 
was  concerned,  Martin  remained  unforgiving  of  his  ruined 
pictures. 

We  ran  the  engine  for  three  hours,  then  set  sail;  but  it 
soon  fell  calm,  and  we  are  now  drifting,  with  plenty  of  lee- 
way. We  are  all  very  alert,  for  it  is  no  joke  to  be  wrecked 
hereabout. 

Yasowa  flared  into  the  sky  as  dark  came  on,  and  then  a 
big  bright  moon  rose,  so  we  have  ample  light  for  our  night 
watches. 


Tuesday,  June  16,  1908. 

At  six  I  was  on  deck,  and  our  patent  log  told  of  thirty- 
six  miles  to  the  good  since  we  stopped  the  engine  yesterday. 
We  lay  west  of  Erromanga,  called  Martyr  Isle,  from  the 
many  missionaries  horribly  butchered  by  the  cannibals,  and 
were  drifting  on  a  flat,  grey  sea,  with  no  wind.  Behind 
the  long  black  island,  grisly  mysterious  in  the  half-light, 
the  fires  of  the  sun  were  kindling, — lifting,  flaring,  fading, 
burning  again,  then  changing  into  an  unendurable  splen- 
dour of  blue  and  gold,  in  lateral  bands,  the  massy  clouds 
above  shimmering  gold  and  palest  green,  with  palpitating 
purple  shadows.  Then  followed  broad  fanrays  of  intoler- 
able gold.  To  the  southeast,  Tana  was  shrouded  in  a  blue 
opal  mist,  throbbing  with  liquid  rainbow  colours.  The 
whole  universe  palpitated  in  an  excess  of  passionate  colour. 

A  little  wind  sprang  up  abaft,  and  we  rippled  ahead  over  a 
beautiful  sea  while  the  world  resumed  a  normal  appearance. 
Jack  and  I  boxed  in  our  bathing  suits,  treated  each  other  to 
a  salt  pailing,  feasted  on  hotcakes  and  Papeete  honey,  and 
put  in  a  good  day's  work.  About  four  the  sea  began  to 
make,  and  we  partook  of  Wada's  wild  duck  and  plum-duff 
dinner  on  a  rolling  boat. 


THE  LOG  OP  THE  SNARK  339 


At  sea,  New  Hebrides  to  Solomon  Islands, 

Friday,  June  26,  1908. 

This  is  the  day  we  should  have  sighted  San  Christoval 
Island  in  the  Solomons,  but  the  weather  has  been  so  beastly, 
with  such  dense  cloud  and  mist  where  land  ought  to  be,  that 
we  have  had  to  be  very  cautious  lest  we  run  into  some  un- 
seen peril  of  rock  or  reef.  We  have  lain  off  and  on  all 
night,  and  heaved  to  at  daylight  to  watch  for  a  rift  in  the 
tiresome  smoky  cloud  to  show  us  the  land.  It  must  be  near, 
for  to-day  a  butterfly  tangled  in  our  rigging,  and  we  have 
seen  a  number  of  white  land-birds. 

Kemembering  the  Snark's  refusal  to  heave  to  on  that 
memorable  night  out  from  San  Francisco,  and  in  spite  of 
better  luck  on  a  later  occasion,  we  were  a  trifle  apprehensive. 
This  morning  when  I  awoke  and  realised  that  the  men  were 
inducing  this  mano3uvre,  I  called  up  to  Jack: 

" Won't  she?" 

Came  his  puzzling  response: 

"Isn't  she?" 

I  repeated: 

"Mate — won't  she  heave  to?" 

"Isn't  she  hove  to,  Mate?"  he  returned,  and  I  scrambled 
on  deck  to  find  the  little  old  tub  safely  and  successfully 
hove  to  in  a  misty-moisty  world  of  wet,  and  Jack  grinning 
with  achievement. 

While  all  eyes  are  straining  for  the  four-thousand- 
foot  outlines  of  San  Christoval,  for  a  landmark,  the  course 
we  want  to  make  is  between  two  small  islands  near  the 
southwestern  end  of  San  Christoval — Santa  Catalina  and 
Santa  Anna,  four  miles  apart.  Jack  has  decided  to  run  in 
to  Port  Mary  on  Santa  Anna,  the  western  of  the  two,  as 
the  old  sailing  directions  state  there  were  a  trader  and  a 
missionary  there.  We  do  not  know  what  may  have  hap- 
pened since,  but  are  going  to  take  chances.  Nakata  is  clean- 
ing the  "arsenal,"  just  to  have  it  in  efficient  order.  Mate 
is  ill,  and  I  can  see  he  is  anxious  to  prove  his  navigation  cor- 


340  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

rect,  for  this  is  not  a  reassuring  place  in  which  to  go  wrong. 
He  had  little  rest  last  night,  for  thunder  squalls  were  almost 
incessant,  from  ten  o'clock  on.  The  thunder  was  sometimes 
like  a  steady  drumming,  or  the  thrumming  of  gongs,  and 
the  lightning  burst  the  bonds  of  the  dark  with  brazen  con- 
tempt for  everything  human  or  made  by  human  hands. 
The  forked  and  streaked  thunder-bolts  rove  high  heaven 
and  shot  crashing  into  the  sea.  Oh — one  presses  close  to 
the  nakedness  and  smallness  of  life  at  such  times.  Hour 
after  hour  the  noise  and  illumination  continued,  and  I  caught 
myself  in  forbidden  self-pity  of  nerve-weariness  and  eye- 
weariness.  I  had  tried  the  cockpit  floor,  along  with  Jack, 
in  our  oilskins;  then  I  fled  to  the  dry  white  privacy  of  my 
stateroom,  and  pitied  him  wet  and  sick  outside.  I  tried  to 
sleep,  but  the  lightning  had  crept  inside  my  head,  behind  my 
eyes,  into  my  very  soul. 

...  At  Vila,  I  was  too  occupied  trotting  about  to  write, 
and  have  been  working  hard  these  seven  days  at  sea  since 
leaving  Vila.  We  arrived  there  on  Wednesday,  June  17, 
in  a  fine  rain  so  dense  that  Jack  made  port  by  judgment 
rather  than  sight.  It  was  squally,  with  a  rushing,  foaming, 
following  sea.  The  engine  chugged  away  sturdily,  for  a 
change;  I  steered,  and  Jack  peered  ahead  for  breakers. 
The  mists  parted  and  dispersed  only  as  we  slipped  into  the 
green  land-locked  harbour,  and  we  bit  into  good  anchorage  in 
thirteen  fathoms,  to  discover  ourselves  with  plenty  of  com- 
pany— nine  or  ten  small  vessels,  five  of  them  ketches,  the 
others  sloops  and  schooners,  scattered  the  mile  and  a  half 
breadth  of  the  bay.  And,  of  all  things,  Jack's  friend  Cap- 
tain Lewes  and  the  Cambrian  had  just  steamed  out. 

I  noticed  that  the  French  Residence  and  a  French 
schooner  flew  their  flags  at  half  mast,  and  I  pulled  ours 
part-way  down.  The  grewsome  result  was  that  the  French 
captain  of  police,  Paul  Mattei,  put  immediately  out,  expect- 
ing to  find  some  one  dead  aboard!  It  turned  out  that  the 
captain  of  the  French  schooner  had  lately  died. 

Natives  flocked  aboard,  a  less  scrubby  lot  than  the  Tanese, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  341 

but  not  much  to  boast  of.  These  Efate  islanders  are  among 
the  better  sort,  possessing  a  slight  strain  of  Polynesian.  We 
traded  tobacco  sticks  and  bead  necklaces  and  things  for 
rather  fine- woven  basket-bags,  and  a  fluffy  dancing  skirt  of 
shredded  fibre  dyed  a  plummy  wine-colour. 

We  called  upon  the  Acting  English  Resident,  Mr. 
Jacomb,  an  Oxford  man,  and  upon  the  French  Resident, 
Charles  Noufflard.  They  returned  our  calls  next  day,  also 
Captain  Harrowell,  English  chief  of  the  native  constabulary, 
and  we  were  entertained  by  them  ashore.  Captain  Har- 
rowell seized  Jack's  hand  in  both  his  and  cried:  "And 
this  is  Jack  London ! — Why,  he 's  a  household  word  in  Eng- 
land ! ' '  We  dined  with  him  and  Mr.  Jacomb,  all  in  faultless 
evening  dress,  with  noiseless  Chinese  servants,  and  a  white 
silk  punkah  waving  overhead. 

M.  Noufflard  had  us  to  lunch — all  charming  apology  be- 
cause he  had  just  arrived  and  his  household  was  not  yet 
running  smoothly.  However,  he  had  enough  of  his  Parisian 
treasures  unpacked  to  set  a  beautiful  table,  which  was  served 
by  a  shy  native  house-boy  trained  by  Noufflard 's  predeces- 
sor. At  both  of  these  meals  ashore  we  were  honoured  with 
cocoanut-palm  salad — made  from  the  very  tip-top  of  the 
tree,  which  loses  its  life  thereby.  " Funeral  salad,"  Martin 
cheerily  dubs  it. 

The  English  cruiser  Prometheus  arrived  on  the  18th,  and 
by  her  courtesy  we  had  her  blacksmiths  aboard  to  do  some 
repairing, — a  broken  spinnaker  boom,  and  other  items.  And 
Jack  and  I  went  over  with  our  chronometer  to  rate  it. 

The  British  Colonial  officials  are  strict,  and  our  yacht 
license  availed  us  nothing ;  we  were  obliged  to  clear,  like  any 
merchant  vessel.  We  did  so,  and  got  away  on  June  20, 
sliding  out  under  full  canvas,  dipping  our  flag  to  the 
cruiser,  which  dipped  and  cheered  in  return. 

That  night  there  was  a  red  glow  in  the  eastern  sky,  prob- 
ably Ambrym  volcano.  Next  day  we  could  see  two  beau- 
tiful smoking  cones  rising  out  of  the  horizon — the  most 
wonderful  experience.  One  was  Ambrym,  the  other  Aoba, 


342  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

or  Leper  Island,  4000  feet  high.  Big  Mallicolo,  on  our  port 
side,  tempted  us  repeatedly  to  put  into  its  fascinating  green 
baylets;  but  we  were  anxious  to  get  ahead  to  the  Solomons, 
where  we  might  find  a  doctor. 

Jack  has  gleaned  enough  from  our  medical  shelf  to  feel 
confident  in  diagnosing  his  trouble  as  fistula — caused  by  he 
knows  not  what,  unless  it  be  some  infinitesimal  fishbone. 
He  has  a  new  crop  of  sores,  too — and  ample  company,  for 
Martin,  Wada,  and  Nakata,  who  disregarded  all  advice  about 
corrosive  sublimate,  are  all  now  nursing  bad  ulcers — Nakata, 
especially,  has  our  sympathy,  for  a  large  space  on  his  calf, 
which  he  inadvertently  burned  with  a  hot  iron,  has  become 
infected.  Jack  has  his  sores  well  in  hand;  but  the  others 
are  praying  for  stronger  and  stronger  cures,  even  corrosive 
sublimate  being  too  slow  for  them.  Wada  talks  in  his  sleep, 
and  dreams  of  happy  days  in  Papeete  with  his  native  sweet- 
heart. 

But  Henry  and  Tehei  are  gloriously  healthy.  Tehei  has 
been  catching  fish — big  rainbow-bubbles  of  bonitas — and  his 
yells  of  joy  as  he  lands  them  blobbing  on  the  deck,  are  a 
tonic  to  all  on  board.  Jack  says  it's  worth  a  hundred  dol- 
lars to  hear  Tehei  catch  a  bonita. 

We  sighted  one  of  the  Banks  Group  on  the  23d.  They 
were  discovered  by  Captain  Bligh,  in  an  open  boat  on  May 
14,  1879,  during  his  remarkable  voyage  from  Tofoa  to 
Timor,  after  the  mutiny  of  the  Bounty.  They  did  not  dare 
land  and  expose  themselves  to  the  atrocities  of  the  cannibal 
natives,  preferring  the  perils  of  the  open  boat. 

Jack  finished  an  article,  which  he  calls  The  Amateur  Navi- 
gator, and  is  now  at  work  on  a  Hawaiian  short  story.  He  is 
certainly  doing  all  a  mortal  man  could  accomplish. 

One  evening  we  were  playing  cards  in  the  cabin,  when 
Jack,  who  was  facing  the  open  door  into  my  room,  exclaimed 
in  a  tone  almost  of  awe: 

" Great  God!" 

I  went  cold,  and  followed  his  bulging  gaze,  expecting  to 
see  nothing  less  than  half  the  warm  South  Sea  pouring  in. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  343 

What  I  did  see  was  hardly  more  reassuring — an  enormous 
centipede,  fully  six  inches,  making  unerringly  up  the  bunk- 
side  for  my  pillow.  Martin  nailed  it  with  Jack's  big  office 
shears,  and  was  so  calm  about  it  that  I  asked  him  why. 
"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  don't  mind  them.  In  Tahiti,  the  first 
day  I  got  up,  after  six  weeks  in  hospital,  I  sat  on  one.  It 
didn't  hurt  much." 

Our  course  from  Efate  had  been  nearly  north;  but  pass- 
ing between  the  Banks  Group  to  starboard,  and  big  5000- 
foot  Espiritu  Santo  to  port,  we  quit  the  New  Hebrides  and 
set  the  course  northwest  for  the  Solomons.  We  were  con- 
tent to  be  well  away  from  Santo,  as  it  is  treacherously  reefy, 
and  the  natives  bear  an  especially  unsavoury  reputation, 
being  the  very  aristocracy  and  autocracy  of  the  New  Hebri- 
deans,  athletic,  strong,  cruel,  and  well  supplied  with  of- 
fensive weapons. 

Oh,  it  is  a  wild  part  of  the  world,  this — wild  peoples,  wild 
weather,  and  a  wild  boisterous  sea  at  times.  On  the  24th 
we  white  ones  all  fell  ill  with  violent  headaches,  as  if  we  had 
been  poisoned.  Not  the  least  of  our  comforts  were  Tehei's 
ministrations  with  his  gentle  hands,  in  hours  of  lomi-lomi — 
his  tauromi.  To  our  repeated  mauruuruu's  he  would  nod 
and  bob  and  smile  with  the  most  benevolent  manner. 

It  all  wore  off  next  day,  but  we  felt  weak  and  "rocky/' 
according  to  Martin. 

In  addition  to  the  myriad  other  things  he  is  handling, 
Jack  has  a  navigation  class  of  two,  Martin  and  Henry.  I 
am  glad  of  this,  for  we  would  be  in  parlous  pickle  if  Jack 
were,  say,  too  ill  to  navigate.  While  this  is  going  on,  I  work 
with  Nakata  and  Tehei  at  their  English.  Nakata  is  nothing 
short  of  brilliant,  and  has  already  gone  far  past  Wada  in 
our  speech;  but  Tehei  is  despairingly  an  infant,  and  can 
hold  nothing  in  his  head  over  night. 


344  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


Aboard  the  Snark,  Port  Mary  (Upuna), 
Island  of  Santa  Anna  (Owa  Raha), 
Sunday,  June  28,  1908. 

Curious  Sabbaths  these,  at  the  ends  of  the  earth.  A  week 
ago  we  were  in  the  bush  village  on  Tana,  and  now,  here  we 
are  at  last  in  our  first  port  in  the  Solomon  Group,  inhabited 
by  the  most  bloodthirsty  and  treacherous  of  any  known 
savages — head-hunters  who  prowl  for  prey  by  night,  on  land 
and  sea,  rarely  attacking  unless  their  victims  are  at  their 
mercy  without  risk  to  themselves.  And  this  is  going  on 
to-day — indeed,  on  the  next  small  island  to  the  northwest, 
Ugi,  where  we  are  bound,  the  trader  before  the  present 
one  was  surprised  and  murdered  by  a  canoe-raid  from  the 
big  bad  island  of  Malaita — the  worst  in  the  world. 

We  are  anchored  in  eighteen  fathoms,  with  250  feet  of 
chain.  In  fact,  the  good  old  hook  is  in  a  hole  in  the  sandy 
bottom ;  and  we  are  about  four  cable-lengths  from  the  beach 
village.  The  bay  is  on  the  west  side  of  the  little  island, 
which  rises  500  feet  and  is  beautifully  wooded. 

Yesterday  we  were  a  tired  and  yawning  lot  of  Snarkites, 
after  another  shouting  night  of  thunder.  The  sky  was  ter- 
rific, brilliant  intermittent  flashes  opening  up  deep  heavens 
of  illuminated  cloudlands,  followed  by  fierce  hells  of  light- 
ning-bolts and  pitchy  dark.  We  lay  off  and  on  again  that 
night  of  the  26th,  and  yesterday  was  calm  and  lovely  as  a 
day  in  the  Doldrums,  the  ocean  like  a  billowing  breadth  of 
woven  blue  fabric,  so  fine  were  the  rippling  wrinkles,  strewn 
with  tiny  violet  Portuguese  men-o'-war.  All  day  we  could 
see  San  Christoval ;  but  our  '  '  tempery ' '  engine  saw  fit  to  go 
on  strike,  and  there  was  no  wind.  We  worked  as  usual,  and 
Jack  was  much  gratified  to  find  in  his  books  a  diagram  of  a 
different  application  of  the  Sumner  Method,  which  he  had 
already  reasoned  out  independently  for  himself  the  previous 
day. 

At  sunset  Santa  Anna  pricked  out  of  the  horizon — "  Ex- 
actly where  I  wanted  it,"  Jack  affirmed.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  heave  to  again  for  the  night,  the  isle  of  our  de- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  345 

sire  melting  in  copper  mist.  Over  the  mainland — San 
Christoval — there  were  gigantic  piles  of  smoky  cloud,  letting 
forth  great  bursts  of  sunset  flame — reminding  one  of  mighty 
sacrificial  fires  of  the  gods  of  the  Solomons  at  cannibal  rites. 
Out  of  the  gorgeous  chaos  of  colour  and  fire,  there  upthrust 
a  lofty  cloud-pillar  like  grey  marble,  that  slowly  blossomed 
out  two  broad  wings  of  gold  from  its  head.  Never  was 
anything  like  it  in  the  kaleidoscope  of  the  sky.  And  off  to 
the  east  a  false  beautiful  sunset  flaunted  fanrays  of  vivid 
azure  against  a  background  of  palest  rose-tourmaline  that 
burned  to  ashy  crimson.  Higher  up  grew  fairy  mountain 
ranges  of  pure  gold  and  ruby,  with  delicate  straight  cloud- 
lines  drawn  across.  Tradewind  clouds  puffed  up  like  pink 
roses  out  of  the  soft  purple  and  rose  sea,  and  to  the  south  a 
city  of  dreams  glinted  on  the  horizon.  Close  at  hand  myr- 
iads of  fish  leaped  in  the  coloured  flood,  and  subsided  only 
when  the  brilliancy  went  out  of  the  world.  Then  San 
Christoval  bulked  ominously  in  its  cowl  of  cloud,  and  we 
could  not  but  imagine  the  benighted  bush-heathen  in  their 
mountain  lairs,  killing  and  eating,  hating  and  loving — with 
scant  love — fattening  their  little  women  and  children  for 
the  feasting.  There  are  some  much-hackneyed  lines  in 
"Greenland's  Icy  Mountains"  that  come  unbidden  in  the 
face  of  the  facts  of  life  in  Melanesia. 

When  morning  broke,  this  Sunday  morning,  we  found  we 
had  drifted  slightly  but  made  no  headway.  It  is  vast  com- 
fort to  find  our  sinned-against  Snark  doing  the  normally-ex- 
pected, and  not  the  "inconceivable  and  monstrous !" 

Martin  started  the  propeller  at  6:30,  and  Jack  set  our 
course  for  Santa  Anna,  or  where  it  should  be,  for  only 
squalls  could  be  seen  in  that  direction.  We  "steamed"  for 
seven  hours,  without  a  dissent  from  the  engine,  at  first  on 
a  calm  sea,  and  later  with  a  brisk  trade  wind  in  addition. 
1  i  Just  see  us  kite ! ' y  Martin  panted  from  out  of  his  diminu- 
tive hatch.  The  sparkling  water  was  littered  with  flotsam 
— seaweed,  fruit,  banyan-leaves,  twigs,  grasses,  cocoanut 
shells. 


346  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

We  were  puzzled  by  what  appeared  to  be  a  long  yellow 
shoal  ahead,  and  I  confess  to  a  little  prickle  of  nerves  when 
our  bow  cut  into  the  discoloured  water — merely  a  calm 
streak  yellowed  by  a  peculiar  light  effect  from  the  sky.  Over 
the  long  glassy  swell  of  it  we  fared,  flying-fish  darting  about, 
every  one  alert,  and  Henry  and  Tehei  dropping  vowelly  ex- 
clamations, their  eyes  sparkling.  One  or  the  other  was  aloft 
all  the  time.  Jack  was  tense  and  keyed-up,  and  I  could 
see  he  was  suffering  physically ;  but  he  was  living  high,  just 
the  same,  and  his  eyes  were  blue  and  snapping. 

As  we  neared  the  channel  between  the  two  small  islands, 
we  noticed  lines  of  black  dots  on  the  long  low  points  reach- 
ing out  from  either  island.  Through  the  binoculars  it 
was  with  a  real,  scary  thrill  I  made  sure  that  the  ones  on 
the  port  bow  were  moving  back  and  forth  restlessly.  Soon 
the  glasses  showed  them  to  be  unmistakable  human  beings — 
black,  naked,  gesticulating,  and  increasing  in  numbers. 
The  dots  on  the  Santa  Anna  point  of  reef  proved  to  be 
merely  rocks.  I  can  assure  you  that  every  man  of  us — in- 
cluding myself — knew  exactly  where  his  gun  lay.  There 
is  nothing  too  bad  that  the  books  can  say  about  the  Solomon 
Islanders,  and  from  Samoa  on,  the  word  of  mouth  confirma- 
tions have  been  a-plenty,  so  we  were  wide-awake  and  cautious. 

No  canoes  put  out,  however,  and  we  sailed  on,  I  at  the 
wheel,  rounding  the  reef  of  Santa  Anna  and,  finally,  in  a 
sudden,  whipping  rain-squall,  passing  through  the  narrow 
entrance.  I'll  never  forget  the  picture,  while  I  stole  glances 
from  the  compass  by  which  I  was  steering  my  very  best, 
guided  by  Jack's  hand-waved  directions  and  frequent  shout, 
over  the  noise  of  the  engine:  "Steady!"  Across  the 
jagged  jumble  of  outer  reef  along  which  we  slid  looking  for 
the  passage,  with  a  background  of  palms  and  lofty  thatched 
roofs  and  a  wooded  hillside,  rose  stately  the  most  beautiful 
canoes,  more  beautiful  than  Venetian  gondolas — elegant  of 
body,  with  high  graceful  ends,  carved,  painted,  outlined 
with  white  cowrie  shells,  and  manned  by  woolly-headed, 
gleaming-bodied,  excited  blacks.  It  was  all  so  savagely 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  347 

beautiful,  so  unreal — so  much  stage-scenery  faultlessly  exe- 
cuted and  acted.  And  we  were  hardly  at  anchor,  directed 
to  our  present  holding-place  by  a  native  who  spoke  a  queer 
sort  of  English,  than  we  could  see  a  bevy  of  similar  canoes 
approaching  from  Santa  Catalina.  It  would  seem  that  few 
vessels  enter  the  Archipelago  from  the  eastern  end. 

The  islander  who  piloted  us  to  our  anchorage,  gave  his 
name: 

"I  Peter.     I  Christian. " 

But  he  looks  it  not.  And  it  turns  out  that,  being  the 
worst  of  the  boiling  at  Port  Mary,  and  even  now  awaiting 
judgment  from  the  Commissioner  for  threatening  the  man- 
ager of  the  Company  (for  whom  he  gathers  copra)  with  a 
spear,  he  was  the  only  one  who  mentioned  his  claim  to  re- 
ligion, or  took  the  trouble  to  be  decent  to  us.  He  does  not 
know  why  we  are  here,  or  who  we  are — perhaps  to  watch 
him,  for  all  he  can  tell.  Very  ingratiating  he  is,  very  non- 
chalant and  careless,  in  an  elegant  sort  of  way,  and,  as  he 
is  likely  to  be  useful  in  finding  curios  for  us,  we  meet  him 
half-way.  He  has  the  most  remarkable  eyes,  brilliant, 
shallow,  wicked,  with  a  soulless  glitter  of  utter  conscience- 
lessness. 

Peter  explained,  in  what  is  called  beche  de  mer  English, 
that  there  was  only  one  white  man  here,  Tom  Butler,  whose 
shack  we  could  see  ashore,  and  that  Tom  Butler  was  away 
getting  copra  on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  and  would  be 
back  to-morrow.  But  Tom  got  wind  of  us  and  returned  to- 
day, rowed  by  two  black  "boys,"  in  a  whaleboat.  He  is  as 
near  a  dead  man  as  a  live  man  can  be — a  ghastly  object.  He 
wabbled  aboard  almost  helpless,  a  dead  hand  bumping 
against  the  gangway  ropes — some  tropic  ailment  having 
robbed  it  of  all  sensation  and  power. 

" Lucky  it's  not  your  right  hand,"  Jack  sympathised. 

"But  I'm  left-handed,"  Butler  quavered  with  a  sickly 
smile  on  his  bloodless  face.  He  resembles  a  white-faced, 
snub-nosed,  freckled  Irish  school-urchin,  and  his  one  ob- 
session is  his  friend  the  trader  at  Ugi — "Jack  at  Ugi."  All 


348  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  sense  he  seems  to  have  he  expends  in  being  kind  to  us 
with  what  is  left  of  his  Irish  good-heartedness.  After  one 
becomes  used  to  his  graveyard  personality  and  the  wandering 
bluish  gaze  that  slowly  focuses  as  he  gathers  his  faculties  to 
answer  a  question,  he  does  not  bother  one 's  sympathies  much, 
because  what  there  is  of  him  is  perfectly  self-satisfied.  But 
conversation  boils  down  to  something  like  this: 

1 '  How 's  copra  here  ? — much  of  it  ? " 

An  eye-focusing  pause. 

"Oh,  plenty;  but  Jack  at  Ugi  got  out  a  hundred  tons  last 
Christmas. ' ' 

Or: 

"So  you  have  no  missionaries  here  any  more?" 

"No — no — but  there's  lots  of  'em  down  at  Jack's  at  Ugi." 

"Pretty  snug  little  harbour  this,"  Jack  remarks. 

"Sure — yes — but  there's  a  better  one  down  at  Jack's  at 
Ugi." 

Christmas  is  the  one  event  of  the  year  to  Butler.  He 
spends  it  with  Jack  at  Ugi.  He  looks  forward  to  it,  and 
back  upon  it.  Indeed,  he  practically  never  opens  his  mouth 
without  working  in  some  reference  to  Jack  at  Ugi. 

We  went  ashore  with  Tom  Butler  in  the  whaleboat  to  his 
shack — a  ragged  wooden  cottage  with  thatched  roof.  He  was 
too  weak  to  open  his  double-padlocked  door,  so  I  did  it  for 
him,  and  then  poked  about  the  premises  seeing  what  I  could 
see,  while  Jack,  very  much  under  the  weather,  lolled  supine 
in  a  rotting  canvas  chair  on  the  rickety  porch.  Then  there 
dropped  in  the  queerest  bunch  of  callers  I  ever  had — stark 
naked  women  and  girls,  with  close-cropped  woolly  heads  and 
horrid  blackened  teeth.  The  young  women  had  rather  pretty 
figures,  except  for  a  peculiar  horizontal  elongation  of  their 
breasts;  but  any  facial  beauty  they  might  have  is  sadly 
marred  by  their  unlovely  cropped  heads,  which  make  them 
resemble  microcephalous  idiots.  One  Neapolitan-looking  girl 
from  the  other  side  of  the  island,  must  have  been  a  sport, 
or  had  some  Polynesian  (she  did  not  look  like  a  half-caste), 
for  she  had  fine,  wavy  brown  hair  several  inches  long  stand- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  349 

ing  out  all  over  her  head,  softly.  The  men  allow  their  own 
hair  to  attain  a  sizable  fuzz.  Did  I  say  the  females  were 
stark  naked?  The  maidens  usually  wear  a  single  strand  of 
twine  or  cocoanut  fibre  around  the  waist,  the  matrons  be- 
ing distinguished  by  the  addition  of  a  single  string  de- 
pendent in  front.  Very  much  overdressed  wives  attach  to 
their  waist-string  a  grassy  fringe  fore  and  aft,  about  six 
inches  square.  I  tried  to  bargain  for  one  of  these  ' '  dresses, ' ' 
but  the  woman  shot  a  terrified  glance  at  her  man  as  she 
vehemently  shook  her  head  at  me.  Tom  Butler  explained 
that  it  would  be  a  mortal  offence  for  her  to  part  with  her 
fringe. 

Three  slim  virgins  volunteered  a  dance,  to  the  music  (?)  of 
a  jew's-harp  at  the  mouth  of  one — a  slow-stepping  hula  in 
which  the  dancers  incline  backward  from  head  to  knee,  the 
lower-leg  and  feet  angling  to  keep  the  curious  balance.  This 
performance  took  place  surreptitiously  in  the  cottage,  as  it 
seems  the  males  do  not  approve  of  strange  white  men  wit- 
nessing it. 

I  have  always  idolised  the  human  form — filled  my  house 
with  copies  of  Greek  statuary,  collected  pictures  of  nudes, 
and  revelled  in  the  beauty  of  the  cinctured  native  peoples 
we  have  seen  on  this  voyage;  but  I  must  confess  that  there 
is  a  startle  when  one  first  sees  women  going  about  entirely 
naked.  I  shall  become  used  to  it  in  no  time,  I  suppose; 
but  the  initial  impression  is  a  bit  of  a  shock.  The  men 
here  all  wear  a  loin-cloth,  no  matter  how  short  it  may  be 
of  its  purpose. 

These  people  are  as  different  as  can  be  from  the  monkey- 
ish travesties  of  human  beings  on  Tana.  They  are  well- 
sized,  and  well-formed,  muscular,  graceful.  Their  shoul- 
ders are  peculiar,  however — massive  enough,  but  lacking  the 
squareness  we  admire.  They  round  down  upon  the  arms  in- 
stead of  outjutting. 

And  oh,  the  ornaments!  We  have  become  more  or  less 
inured  to  the  lovely  practice  of  civilised  women  piercing 
their  ears;  but  here,  when  you  see  the  lobe-hole  stretched 


350  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

until  it  accommodates  a  wooden  disk  eight  inches  in  cir- 
cumference, it  makes  you  think. 

.  .  .  We  have  returned  to  the  yacht  laden  with  yams, 
cocoanuts  and  papaias.  The  bay  is  beautiful — never  did  I 
see  water  so  brilliantly,  luminously  turquoise — with  a  daz- 
zling band  of  white  beach  that  is  not  white  but  cream,  not 
cream  but  pink,  a  rim  of  sparkling  foam  at  the  water's 
edge  breaking  against  the  ornate  canoes  hauled  up,  and 
lovely  emerald  arboreal  foliage  behind,  palms,  papaias,  hau 
trees,  and  luxuriant  thicket,  broken  here  and  there  by  the 
sombre,  uncanny  roofs  of  the  canoe  houses  where  dead 
chiefs  are  hung  to  dry. 


Monday,  June  29,  1908. 

We  had  to  keep  anchor  watches  all  last  night,  for  it  was 
squally,  and  the  bottom  is  rather  skaty.  In  case  of  drag- 
ging, we  hoped  the  anchor  would  hold  against  the  sides  of 
that  hole  it  is  in. 

Also,  it  is  well  to  keep  watches  here  on  general  principle. 
While  the  natives  of  this  outlying  island  are  fairly  well 
disposed,  Tom  Butler  says  that  raids  from  Malaita  are  al- 
ways imminent,  under  cover  of  darkness  and  squalls,  and 
nothing  is  more  to  the  taste  of  the  Malaitan  head-hunters 
than  to  "cut  out"  a  schooner  laden  with  tobacco  and  other 
loot. 

It  has  been  drizzling  stickily  all  day,  and  we  have  stayed 
aboard  rocking  gently  to  our  long  cable.  But  don't  think 
that  we  have  been  idle.  The  word  went  forth  that  we  would 
trade  stick-tobacco  for  curios;  and  in  no  time  it  was  easy 
to  forecast  that  the  oldest  treasures  of  the  village  would 
soon  go  up  in  tobacco  smoke,  for  although  no  women  came 
out,  their  choicest  ornaments  did — evidently  seized  upon 
by  the  men-folk  and  brought  for  barter. 

They  wanted  beads  as  well  as  tobacco ;  and  in  short  order 
we  learned  that  the  changing  styles  in  adornment,  of  which 
we  had  been  told,  is  no  myth.  Just  now  the  fashion  calls 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  351 

for  a  medium-sized  bead — a  small-pea  size,  and  the  people 
have  evinced  a  most  unaccountable — to  us — aversion  to 
certain  handsome  necklaces  of  graduated  turquoise-blue 
beads.  They  will  accept  them  as  a  gift — they'll  accept  any- 
thing that  way;  but  if  we  indicate  an  exchange,  they  shrug 
and  grin  half-insolently. 

All  day  they  have  clambered  over  the  side,  eager,  ava- 
ricious, bringing  treasure  undreamed  in  carved  nose-rings 
of  thick  turtle-shell;  baskets  ("bastiks")  ;  shell-like  flow- 
ers; garters  of  small  white  cowries  on  bands  of  finest 
cocoanut-sennit ;  elongated  black  cannibal  calabashes  show- 
ing more  than  the  beginnings  of  art — indeed,  the  scrolls 
and  figures  on  the  ends  are  almost  classic;  beautiful  giant 
"clam1'  shells  with  fluted  lips,  the  insides  like  purest  white 
marble  polished  to  satin  gloss — full  of  delicious  meat,  raw 
or  cooked ;  and  two  actual  clam-pearls — one  large  and  round, 
one  acorn-shaped,  the  surfaces  like  porcelain ;  bracelets  from 
the  island  of  Rubiana,  of  delicate-tinted,  hand-wrought 
shell,  finely  etched  in  patterns — each  bracelet  must  have 
taken  months  to  make  with  stone  tools;  armlets  worked  out 
of  the  big  white  clam  shells,  that  Tom  Butler  avers  it  takes 
a  black  a  year  to  do;  and  one  native,  an  athletic  young 
hunter,  brought  bush-pigeons,  trading  them  for  a  delicate 
flowered  silkaline  kerchief,  which  he  now  wears  dangling 
from  a  greasy  belt,  against  a  dingy  and  very  dirty  lava-lava. 

Jack  took  a  fancy  to  buy  back  their  beads  of  other  days 
and  modes,  and  we  have  a  heap  of  rococo  things  such  as 
armlets  and  broad  girdles — the  large  beads  wrought  into 
fine  plaited  sennit.  One  is  all  green  beads,  another  bright 
blue,  another  red  and  black — things  beautiful  enough  to 
scheme  a  gown  on. 

Many  a  curio  we  bought  right  off  its  wearer,  this  lending 
an  added  value  in  our  eyes.  I  can  see  some  early  antisepticis- 
ing  of  the  articles — such  as  one  irresistible  bead  garter  that 
was  untied  from  a  sore  leg!  Tehei  is  even  now  washing 
our  dozens  of  Rubiana  bracelets  and  the  turtle  shell  nose- 
rings. 


352  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

These  people  are  "Black  Papuan,"  but  not  as  black  as 
the  New  Guinea  Papuan,  so  say  the  books.  And  in  their 
dark-skinned  visages  one  sees  as  it  were  all  the  features  and 
combinations  of  all  the  varied  white  races  of  Europe,  as 
well  as  the  Orient.  A  fattish  old  soul,  contemplatively  puff- 
ing away  at  a  clay  pipe,  was  the  perfection  of  a  stolid  blear- 
eyed  German,  but  for  his  colour.  Another,  for  all  the 
world  a  comical  little  Irishman,  tried  to  palm  off  a  very 
rotten  calabash,  and  joined  in  the  insane,  brief  cackle  of 
merriment  that  went  up  from  his  fellows  when  we  threw  it 
aside.  Still  another  was  a  typical  Mexican — all  he  needed 
was  a  sombrero.  One  boy  was  the  image  of  any  city  rowdy, 
on  whom  we  kept  a  wary  eye;  but  the  more  we  saw  of 
him  the  better  we  liked  him;  he  was  merely  a  good 
1  'mixer." 

There  was  a  pretty,  impudent  American-faced  chap,  of  the 
weak  and  conceited  sort  that  can  get  very  nasty  on  occasion ; 
and  there  was  every  sort  of  Jew  on  earth.  One  Moorish 
old  chief,  too  dignified  to  barter  directly,  went  home  and 
sent  his  ornaments  by  some  one  else.  We  even  found  strong 
resemblances  to  numbers  of  our  American  friends !  A  thin, 
yellow-brown  variation,  with  a  few  grey  bristles  on  his  lip, 
was  the  vegetable  Chinaman  of  my  childhood. 

Peter  was  much  in  evidence,  excessively  dandified,  and  on 
easy  terms  with  us.  We  found  another  Tomi  than  Taiohae 
Tomi — a  good-looking,  intelligent  fellow,  high  with  the  chief, 
to  whom  we  made  presents,  and  who  is  also,  with  Peter, 
drumming  up  curios  for  us.  Our  private  opinion  is  that 
they  are  a  proper  pair  of  villains,  although  too  wise  to  get 
into  any  trouble  with  so  well-armed  and  mysterious  a  craft 
as  ours. 

And  then  there's  the  Devil.  His  diabolical  face  and 
body  seem  at  variance  with  an  unusually  mild  and  harm- 
less disposition.  Martin  was  just  pouring  an  avalanche  of 
stick-tobacco  alongside  Jack  sitting  on  the  deck-cot,  when 
the  Devil,  in  a  canoe,  squinted  his  basilisk  eyes  over  the 
teak  rail.  *  *  My  God ! ' '  said  Martin,  and  froze  to  the  vision. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  353 

Jack  looked  at  the  thing  and  said:  "I  wouldn't  call  him 
that,  Martin!" 

It  came  over  the  rail,  and  sat  down  upon  it.  It  wore  a 
soft,  old  felt  hat,  that  drooped  limply  around  the  face. 
The  eyes  are  what  I  call  half -moon  eyes — the  iris  high  on 
the  ball,  and  partly  covered  by  the  upper  lid.  The  thing  is 
horribly  near-sighted  and  squints  its  face  into  the  most 
infernal  expressions.  On  the  top  of  the  end  of  its  nose 
is  a  tiny  carved  sliver  of  bone,  set  in  a  hole  long-healed 
for  the  purpose,  the  sliver  curving  up  like  a  diminutive 
rhinoceros  horn,  the  sight  of  which  makes  one  wrinkle  one's 
own  nose  with  involuntary  and  misplaced  sympathy.  Jack 
handed  the  Devil  a  small  iron  puzzle,  and  he  snatched  it 
with  hooked  fingers.  I  looked  for  a  barbed  tail,  but  found 
it  not;  and  the  feet  were  just  as  spraddly  and  hand-like 
as  those  of  the  rest  of  the  spawn.  He  sat  for  hours  over  that 
puzzle,  squinting  ferociously.  I  was  obsessed  to  decorate 
the  creature,  and  hung  about  its  neck  the  most  delicate  opa- 
lescent and  blue  beads.  I  took  a  picture  of  it,  too,  and 
then  got  it  to  remove  its  funny  schoolboy  hat.  Lo!  its 
hair  was  a  yellow-bleached  fuzz  all  over  the  crankiest  coni- 
cal head  ever  born. 

Peter  wears  the  nose-spike,  too,  and  also  one  of  the  popu- 
lar nose-rings  that  hang  over  the  mouth  and  is  of  consider- 
able irk  when  eating. 

In  addition  to  the  disks  of  wood  or  clam-shell  in  their 
strained  ear-lobes,  the  men  have  found  other  rich  possi- 
bilities of  disfigurement.  They  pierce  holes  along  the  edges 
of  the  ear,  and  in  the  topmost  hole  thrust  a  stick  of  polished 
white  wood  the  size  and  length  of  a  pencil  or  a  sturdy  sec- 
tion of  macaroni.  From  the  other  perforations  in  the  tor- 
mented gristle  depend  little  bunches  of  small  beads  and 
porpoise-teeth,  dangling  coquettishly  and  ticklingly  into  the 
hollows  of  the  organ  of  hearing.  This  dainty  custom  ob- 
tains with  both  sexes.  They  scorn  not  the  tin  keys  that 
come  with  canned  goods,  nor  the  wire  handles  of  tin  pails, 
nor  yet  large  rusty  nails.  The  weighted  lobes  frequently 


354  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

hang  nearly  to  the  shoulder,  and  some  are  torn  clear  through, 
hanging  in  two  shreds.  One  haughty  councillor  of  the  chief 
struts  unapproachably  with  a  white  door-knob  bumping  on 
his  grimy  chest.  Another,  high  in  diplomatic  circles,  has  a 
really  handsome  thing  on  his  breast — a  round  flat  disk  four 
inches  in  diameter,  of  snowy  clam-shell,  worked  thin  by  un- 
told labour,  and  etched  deep  with  symbolic  figures.  I  am 
simulating  a  careless  and  rather  contemptuous  attitude 
toward  it,  a  feeble  interest,  for  it  is  evidently  of  vast  value 
to  the  owner.  But  I  think  that  by  weight  of  tobacco  and 
beads  cleverly  displayed  whenever  he  is  around,  the  great 
man  may  talk  business. 

They  do  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  cameras,  and  are 
in  dread  that  the  black  cases  will  go  off.  Nevertheless  they 
brace  up  to  the  ordeal,  although  with  an  awful  fixity  of 
gaze.  The  deck,  during  the  trading,  was  fraught  with  the 
most  laughable  un-misleading  stage  whispers  concerning 
values  of  articles.  It  was  very  plain,  among  other  things, 
that  I  was  a  great  curiosity,  and  my  comradely  relations 
with  my  husband  a  source  of  wondering  speculation.  I 
believe  they  considered  it  surprising  that  the  wealthy  owner 
of  so  much  tobacco  should  have  but  one  wife  anyway. 

And  in  all  this  melee,  trading,  sorting,  cleansing,  and 
packing  away  our  clutter  of  curios,  we  were  ever  courteous, 
careful  not  to  antagonise,  and  we  unostentatiously  avoided 
letting  our  visitors  get  behind  us. 

Tuesday,  June  30,  1908. 

Another  squally  night,  another  forenoon  of  trading  under 
the  awnings;  and  as  Jack  was  feeling  much  better,  we  had 
a  jolly  time.  One  filthy  native  produced  a  gold  sovereign 
and  offered  it  for  tobacco ;  but  that  sort  of  thing  is  outside 
our  sphere  as  a  pleasure  yacht,  for  we  may  only  exchange 
commodities,  and  sell  nothing. 

Nakata  went  ashore  to  do  the  washing,  where  we  found  him 
in  the  afternoon,  near  the  trader's  cottage,  cross-legged  be- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  355 

fore  a  flat  stone,  scrubbing  away,  and  opposite  him  two  nude 
females  likewise  engaged,  and  all  getting  acquainted  in  beche 
de  mer  English.  Wada,  hearing  of  the  social  perquisites 
of  laundering  ashore,  firmly  but  inconspicuously  gleaned 
every  washable  article  on  the  yacht,  and  departed  for  the 
chaste  strand  forthright. 

Jack,  Martin  and  I  wandered  along  a  sylvan  pathway 
under  the  palms,  to  the  village,  and  found  it  quite  unlike 
anything  we  have  yet  seen.  The  straggling  oblong  houses 
have  very  low  sides  and  long-eaved  roofs.  Doors  do  not 
extend  to  the  ground,  but  are  reached  across  a  waist-high, 
roofed  platform  resting  on  logs.  There  are  no  windows 
whatever,  and  the  interiors  are  dark  and  smelly.  Children 
squat  and  squabble  on  the  platforms,  while  shy  women  lurk 
in  the  shadows  behind.  Tomi,  whose  house  is  rather  su- 
perior, introduced  us  to  his  two  wives — the  first  plural 
wives  I  have  ever  met.  They  were  appropriately  gowned 
for  our  reception,  in  single  strings  of  tiniest  coloured  beads 
on  cotton  thread. 

We  noticed  innumerable  sores  on  both  men  and  women — 
mainly  on  the  legs,  which  invite  more  abrasions ;  and  Martin 
groaned  in  disgust  and  sympathy,  meanwhile  spreading  his 
shin-bandages  a  little  wider,  for  there  are  myriads  of  busy 
flies.  As  the  men  gathered  around,  we  noticed  several  who 
were  minus  a  leg  or  an  arm. 

"Him  fella  boy  bite  'm  fella  shark,"  was  the  unmistak- 
able explanation.  And  the  rascals  deliberately  advise  us 
that  swimming  here  is  absolutely  safe ! 

We  are  grappling  valiantly  with  the  current  speech.  This 
morning,  having  traded  for  a  basket  I  particularly  liked, 
Jack  addressed  the  former  owner  as  follows: 

"You  catch  me  fella  one  fella  bastik  all  the  same  along 
this  fella  bastik — sayve?" 

And  "How  much  you  want  along  this  fella  or  that?"  is 
the  beginning  of  a  haggle. 

Tom  Butler's  conversation  is  largely  composed  of  this  jar- 
gon. He  says  "Man  pig  and  woman  pig,"  "Man  fowl, 


356  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

woman  fowl,"  and,  in  describing  a  short  distance,  "A  long 
way  a  little  bit." 

The  women  in  general  are  very  like  the  men  in  manner, 
after  they  have  quickly  conquered  their  bashfulness.  They 
are  beasts  of  burden,  carry  loads,  and  do  heavy  work,  while 
the  men  "do  the  jamboree."  And  speaking  of  jamborees, 
we  indicated  in  lovely  beche  de  mer  that  we  should  appre- 
ciate a  dance.  By  now,  anxious  to  please  the  possessors  of 
so  much  tobacco,  beads  and  " calico,"  they  were  willing  to 
let  the  women  perform  for  us;  so  we  were  led  to  an  open 
space,  where  we  sat  about  on  the  grass  (fervently  hoping 
there  were  no  sore-germs  in  it),  and  saw  a  strange  weaving 
circle  through  the  most  remarkable  and  not  unbeautiful 
gyrations.  We  could  only  guess  at  the  various  signifi- 
cances of  it,  the  stealthy,  graceful  hunting-step  of  Peter 
and  Tomi,  the  monkey-movements  of  the  pot-bellied  brown 
babies,  and  the  delicate  sensuous  danse  au  ventre  of  the 
girls — all  to  the  quaint  humming  vibrations  of  the  Jew's- 
harp. 

We  tendered  appropriate  presents  to  the  dancers,  and 
then  Peter  and  Tomi  stole  Jack  and  Martin,  Henry  and 
Tehei  (who  had  followed  along),  and  took  them  to  a  couple 
of  the  big  canoe  houses — long  gabled  roofs  supported  by 
carven  posts.  The  sides  are  low,  with  equally  low  front 
walls,  the  big  end-spaces  above  wide  open. 

The  nearest  view  I  am  supposed  to  get  into  these  sacred 
edifices  is  from  the  water,  for  no  female  foot  is  permitted, 
on  pain  of  unnameable  punishment,  or  death,  to  defile  even 
the  ground  in  front.  At  the  first  house  I  went  a  little 
nearer  than  was  prudent,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  filch  a  peep 
inside,  but  murmurs  from  my  following  of  dark  heathen 
made  me  turn  leisurely  away  as  if  I  had  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  Jack  is  teasing  me  because  I  am  of  such 
an  inferior  clay  and  sex  that  I  cannot  follow  him.  He  did 
not  see  much,  however — the  carved  kingposts  with  obscene 
figures  atop  (there  is  one  twelve  feet  high  at  a  ''four 
corners"  in  the  village),  a  handsome  canoe  or  so,  and  a 


A  Tambo  Canoe  House 


Mangrove 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  357 

grisly  package  suspended  from  the  ridgepole,  said  to  con- 
tain evaporated  remains  of  chiefs.  Henry  still  insists:  "I 
smell  something  that  first  place. "  Jack  says  he  only 
imagined  it.  But  in  the  second  canoe  house  (I  did  manage 
an  angle  where  I  could  obtain  a  glimpse),  there  was  ample 
odour  of  a  fresher  sort,  for  a  pig,  on  its  back,  was  being 
singed,  with  a  lot  of  men  bending  over  it  in  the  smoke. 

I  found  more  curious  relics  to-day,  among  them  several 
black  wooden  trays,  carved  into  fish  shapes.  I  can  picture 
a  planked  striped  bass  on  one  of  them  some  day,  in  our 
Wolf  House  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon.  We  came  upon  a 
comically  industrious  group  of  artisans  under  the  beach 
palms,  working  feverishly  on  new  imitations  of  the  ancient 
oval  calabashes  we  like,  as  well  as  some  small  and  laughably 
indecent  wooden  figures,  which  were  being  painted  with 
natural  pigments.  The  workers  grinned  sheepishly  when 
we  caught  them  manufacturing  " antiques"  with  which  to 
beguile  our  tobacco.  Jack  contemplated  them  for  a  while, 
then  observed: 

"  They  're  like  the  man  who  was  so  greedy  that  when  he 
was  wrecked  on  an  uninhabited  island,  it  wasn't  ten 
minutes  before  he  had  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  the  naked 
savages. ' ' 

There  is  no  true  hospitality  nor  generosity  among  these 
savages.  It  is  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  quite 
literally  sometimes.  One  old  man,  at  the  dance,  asked  for 
tobacco,  got  it,  and  later  gave  me  a  yellow-and-red  fine- 
plaited  armlet.  It  is  the  only  gift  we  have  received.  This 
man,  Butler  tells  us,  is  an  unprecedented  old  murderer,  a 
terror  in  the  islands,  and  has  killed  more  men  than  he  can 
remember.  And  he,  as  well  as  others  of  his  tribe,  continu- 
ally warn  us  against  Malaita — Mala,  they  call  the  island. 

I  washed  my  hands  very  thoroughly  after  returning  to 
the  yacht — not  because  the  hands  I  had  perforce  to  shake 
were  the  hands  of  murderers  and  man-eaters,  but  because 
they  were  such  unsanitary  hands ! 

The  Snark  is  a  pretty  vision  from  the  beach,  riding  at 


358  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

anchor,  shining  white,  scraped  and  brassy,  all  trig  and 
trim,  with  long  booms  out  on  either  side,  and  the  life-boat 
and  launch  moored  thereto.  No  natives  are  allowed  aboard 
in  Jack's  absence,  but  there  are  always  a  few  small  canoes 
hovering  about. 

We  are  reading  A  Naturalist  Among  the  Head  Hunters, 
by  G.  M.  Woodford,  and  it  is  like  a  half  fairy  tale  and  half 
ogre  tale.  The  Solomons,  by  the  way,  were  so  named  be- 
cause their  early  discoverers  believed  them  to  be  the  source 
of  King  Solomon's  wealth  of  gold.  Mendaiia  saw  them 
first,  only  seventy-five  years  after  Columbus  discovered 
America.  Woodford  tells  of  the  great  beauty  and  variety 
of  the  flora,  and  the  insects  interested  him  vastly.  This  is 
not  surprising,  when  one  learns  that  the  butterflies  were  of 
such  proportions  that  to  secure  them  he  had  to  use  a  shot- 
gun of  some  sort.  In  the  80 's  he  sent  home  to  England 
many  skins  of  birds  new  to  science — rare  pigeons,  parrots, 
and  so  forth;  and  lizards  and  rats  several  feet  long.  And 
as  for  the  people — after  years  spent  among  them,  he  con- 
cludes that  the  longer  he  lives  the  more  he  realises  that  he 
possesses  only  the  most  superficial  knowledge  of  them  and 
their  customs.  It  is  as  intricate  a  puzzle  as  Lafcadio  Hearn 
encountered  with  the  Japanese. 

Wednesday,  July  1,  1914. 

Jack  is  so  improved  that  we  have  been  jubilant  to-day. 
There  was  more  trading  in  the  forenoon — Jack  has  not  writ- 
ten, these  Port  Mary  mornings,  because  of  the  rich  oppor- 
tunity for  curios;  and  Martin  and  I  labelled  the  things 
and  sorted  them  for  packing. 

Wada  reported,  concerning  his  wash-day  ashore :  ' '  Those 
girl  no  like  Papeete  vahine — no  hair  on  head — no  good  sing, 
no  good  that  monkey-talk  English." 

Henry  and  Tehei  rowed  over  to  join  some  natives  who 
were  dynamiting  fish,  and  brought  back  a  few  plump  and 
toothsome  mullet;  but  Henry  shook  his  head  portentously, 
and  explained: 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  359 

"  Never  I  see  such  t'ing.  Dynamite  go,  fish  stun,  I  grab 
fish,  shark  he  come  quick — like  that! — and  take  fish  right 
out  of  my  hand.  No  more  for  me ! " 

It  is  true — the  harbour  sharks,  instead  of  fleeing  at  the 
detonation,  know  it  as  a  dinner-gong  and  gather  to  dis- 
pute the  feast. 

Peter  and  Tomi,  our  two  villainous  but  obliging  col- 
leagues, got  up  a  big  dance  ashore,  and  thither  we  went  after 
dinner,  laden  with  a  sack  of  prizes.  It  was  a  very  pom- 
pous affair,  with  a  bevy  of  dancers  and  quite  an  orchestra 
of  heathenish  wooden  instruments.  The  performers  started 
in  two  long  lines  from  a  weather-beaten  carved  pillar,  then 
moved  around  the  clacking,  intoning  orchestra  in  opposite 
circling  rings.  The  figures  were  much  the  same  as  yester- 
day's, but  more  elaborate.  The  dancers  were  all  gay  with 
cocoanut  foliage  and  flowers,  beautifully  disposed  in  girdles, 
armlets,  garters,  and  wreaths  for  their  heads.  The  steps  are 
very  like  those  of  the  Igorrotes.  Jack  and  I  reclined  and 
watched  and  dreamed,  laughed  at  the  frolicsome  bronze 
pickaninnies,  and  were  glad  we  were  alive. 

After  the  distribution  of  presents,  we  returned  along  the 
sylvan  palmy  path  to  Tom  Butler 's,  where  we  paid  our  fare- 
well call.  There  is  not  much  left  of  the  old  man,  but  all 
there  is  left  is  all  good,  and  he  has  been  more  than  kind  to  us. 
His  last  words  to  us  were : 

"Now  you'll  see  Jack  at  Ugi.    My  word,  but  he'll  give 
you  a  good  time — plenty  of  milk — he's  got  cows,  you  know, 
and  better  bullamacow  than  yours.     Good  luck  to  you — 
and  he  waved  his  live  hand. 

"Bullamacow"  means  beef.  It  is  surmised  that  when 
the  first  bull  and  cow  were  brought  to  the  islands,  they 
were  introduced  as  "a  bull  and  a  cow." 

Ugi,  Solomon  Islands, 
Thursday,  June  2,  1908. 

This  has  been  one  long  day  of  nature-beauty  and  human 
interest,  with  the  ever  present  spice  of  anticipatory  danger 


360  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAKK 

from  earth  and  its  inhabitants.  "We  have  not  apprehended 
the  latter  very  much — what  most  worries  is  the  unreliable- 
ness  of  reef-charting,  and  uncertainty  of  nature  in  the  mat- 
ter of  tides  and  currents.  The  Solomons  stretch  northwest 
and  southeast  for  nearly  a  thousand  miles,  with  an  area  of 
15,000  square  miles — more  than  twice  the  area  of  Wales. 
There  are  nearly  a  dozen  principal  islands,  and  a  lot  of 
lesser  ones.  And  in  this  long  tangle  of  islands  great  and 
small,  weather  conditions  and  all  other  conditions  are  such 
that  it  would  seem  if  a  man  could  sail  safely  through  them, 
he  could  sail  anywhere. 

Jack  was  called  at  5:30  this  morning,  and  before  Martin 
had  coaxed  the  engine  to  work,  we  were  half  out  of  the  reef 
passage  under  sail,  and,  once  clear  of  Port  Mary,  picked  up 
a  good  breeze — which  they  call  the  Southeast  Monsoon.  It 
is  stimulating  to  sail  before  a  wind  with  a  name  like  that. 

We  breakfasted  on  pigeon  and  mullet,  while  engine  and 
wind  swept  us  along  the  green  coast  of  San  Christoval. 
Ugi,  which  is  the  larger  of  two,  called  the  Isles  du  Golfe, 
lies  to  the  north,  about  midway  of  the  big  island,  and  we 
wanted  to  make  it  before  dark.  Night  sailing  hereabout  is 
very  undesirable.  All  of  us  were  unremittingly  on  lookout 
for  rocks  and  shoals  and  reefs,  and  we  saw  them  a-plenty. 
There  was  black  weather  ahead  for  a  while,  ugly  squalls 
with  whipped-white  seas,  and  San  Christoval  was  swathed 
in  dun  clouds.  As  the  day  cleared,  and  clouds  lifted  and 
melted  away  in  the  sunshine,  the  island  unfolded  a  kingdom 
of  hills  and  mountains,  billowing  and  jutting  up  from  the 
water's  edge  to  over  4000  feet,  the  mist-wreathed  valleys 
looping  garland-wise  among  climbing  green  peaks  that 
1  'stood  up  like  the  thrones  of  kings."  There  was  a  savage 
royal  beauty  about  the  land,  as  the  clouds  tore  apart  from 
the  face  of  it — "Ramparts  of  slaughter  and  peril,  Blazing, 
amazing,  aglow." 

Henry  has  learned  who  it  is  we  quote  so  often,  and  this 
morning  remarked  sagely: 

"That  man  Kipling  he  good — he  know  things." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  361 

By  noon  all  was  veiled  in  mist  and  rain  again,  which  in 
turn  cleared  away  from  the  water's  edge,  lifting,  lifting, 
like  a  slow  curtain,  revealing  tier  upon  tier  of  rounded 
woodsy  hills. 

After  dinner,  Ugi  showed  up  ahead  like  a  little  blue  vel- 
vet hat  on  the  water,  its  top  being  flattened;  and  we  made 
out  some  dots  of  islets  on  the  starboard  bow — the  Three  Sis- 
ters. We  glow  with  pleasure  and  reassurance  when  we  can 
positively  identify  any  landmark. 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  we  discovered  a  whale- 
boat  coming  from  the  mainland,  and  presently  welcomed 
aboard  Frederick  A.  Drew,  missionary  of  the  Melanesian 
Society,  Church  of  England.  Whalers  once  frequented  the 
harbour  of  Makira  on  the  western  side  of  San  Christoval; 
but  now,  on  all  this  island,  seventy-six  miles  long  by  twenty- 
three  at  the  widest,  Frederick  Drew  and  one  trader,  Larry 
Keefe,  are  the  only  white  men.  Mr.  Drew  was  a  picture 
standing  in  the  boat  as  she  neared,  rowed  by  three  handsome 
San  Christoval  mission  boys.  He  is  the  slight,  strong,  blond 
type  of  wiry  young  English  rover  who  has  grit  enough  to  go 
anywhere  and  do  anything.  He  met  us  with  frank  blue  eyes 
and  friendly  smile,  and  immediately  he  stepped  aboard 
everybody  was  laughing  in  the  best  of  fellowship  because  he 
wore  the  familiar  badge  of  Melanesia — a  white  rag  about  the 
shin.  Promptly  arose  a  discussion  between  him  and  Martin 
as  to  the  best  cures,  Mr.  Drew  backing  Jack  on  corrosive 
sublimate,  and  Martin  arguing  for  blue-stone,  probably  think- 
ing it  more  efficacious  because  of  its  exceeding  painfulness. 

Mr.  Drew 's  three  black  youths  are  beauties,  with  soft,  shy 
manners  and  chastened  sweet  expressions  on  pleasant- 
featured  faces.  One  of  them,  with  a  strikingly  Egyptian 
profile,  wears  a  little  crucifix  "to  keep  a  man  from  harm." 
I  wonder  what  the  foreign  talisman  really  means  to  him. 

Of  course  we  had  them  all  aboard — the  black  boys  taking 
turns  steering  the  whaleboat,  which  we  towed.  Mr.  Drew 
showed  us  to  the  best  anchorage  off  Ete  Ete,  the  native  vil- 
lage, and  we  shall  celebrate  the  Fourth  of  July  with  a  gen- 


362  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

eral  try-out  of  our  guns,  hoping  for  a  salutary  effect  upon 
the  Ugi  inhabitants,  for  the  other  side  of  the  small  island 
is  peopled  by  the  Malaitans  who  have  killed  many  traders 
at  Ugi.  The  long-ago  first  labour-trade  ship  that  visited 
Ugi,  the  Colleen  Bawn,  disappeared  there.  In  justice  to  the 
Ugians,  however,  the  crew  got  no  more  than  they  deserved, 
for  the  doings  of  the  slave-traders  were  not  nice  and  pretty. 
"Jack,"  alas!  was  not  "at  Ugi,"  but  Mr.  Hansel  Ham- 
mond, an  Australian,  is,  and  a  good  sort  we  found  him, 
plucky  fellow.  We  invited  him  and  Mr.  Drew  for  supper, 
and  kept  them  painting  local  colour  until  after  dark. 
"Jack,"  whose  other  name  is  Larkin,  has  only  escaped  prob- 
able butchery  like  his  predecessors  "at  Ugi,"  to  go  away 
somewhere  to  die  of  heart  disease,  taking  his  native  wife  and 
half-caste  child  with  him.  Perhaps  Tom  Butler  may  pass 
quietly  away  without  ever  knowing.  Half  dead  as  he  is,  I 
am  thinking  the  one  thing  that  could  hurt  him  would  be  to 
know  of  misfortune  to  his  Jack  at  Ugi.  On  the  other  hand, 
so  godlike  to  him  is  Jack  at  Ugi,  that  he  might  believe  no 
mortal  tale  concerning  him! 


Ugi,  Fourth  of  July,  1908. 

We  haled  forth  every  dispensable  bottle,  match-box,  piece 
of  cardboard,  cocoanut  shell,  and  went  at  a  demonstration 
of  marksmanship  that  ought  to  make  us  taboo  from  any 
"monkeying"  in  these  parts.  Mausers,  automatic  rifles, 
Colt  pistols,  Smith  &  Wesson  revolvers,  and  Mr.  Ham- 
mond's Sniders,  all  proved  whether  or  not  they  were  rusty. 

Mr.  Hammond  keeps  us  supplied  with  generous  gallons  of 
fresh  milk,  rich  and  spicy-flavoured,  white-man's  vegetables, 
and  papaias  and  limes.  We  have  him  to  all  meals,  and  yes- 
terday morning  went  ashore  with  him.  Ete  Ete  village  is 
off  to  the  right  of  the  well-kept,  white-painted  trading  sta- 
tion on  stilts,  with  a  score  of  enormous  bulls  and  cows 
browsing  near  by  in  long,  lush  grasses.  We  found  the  na- 
tive houses  similar  but  superior  to  those  at  Port  Mary,  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  363 

the  natives  generally  of  a  better  class.  All  the  "boys"  look 
young,  as  if  they  had  stopped  aging  at  twenty — until  they 
are  very  old.  It  is  hard  to  tell  a  youth  of  twenty-one  from 
a  man  of  forty. 

The  old  chief,  Ramana,  is  a  character.  He  told  me  with 
cackling  glee  and  horrible  grimaces,  of  the  numerous  white 
men  he  had  killed  in  his  day,  when  "him  fella  white  man 
gammon  along  him  fella  mouth  too  much."  But  you  can- 
not get  any  of  them  to  admit  they  have  "kai-kai'd"  human 
flesh.  They  know  our  abhorrence  of  this  practice,  and  look 
sheepish  and  silly  when  questioned  directly.  My  introduc- 
tion to  old  Ramana  was  unexpected  and  rather  startling.  I 
approached  the  little  canoe  which  he  was  hauling  out  on  the 
beach,  and  took  hold  of  the  curved  prow  to  examine  its  carv- 
ing. The  slender  curve  broke  off  in  my  hands,  and  I 
jumped  at  the  grunt  the  old  man  let  out.  But  he  laughed 
at  me — women  are  foolish  cattle  anyhow,  he  thinks.  I  must 
not  shake  his  sacred  hand  (goodness  knows  I  am  not 
anxious!),  for  he  is  taboo  to  the  touch  of  the  lesser  animals. 

We  visited  the  old  rascal  in  his  house,  almost  as  big  and 
imposing  as  a  Port  Mary  canoe  house,  and  upheld  by  simi- 
larly wrought  hardwood  posts.  Jack  bargained  with  him 
through  Mr.  Hammond  for  eight  of  these  pillars,  for  they 
are  magnificent  curios — the  figures  Egyptian  in  effect,  the 
carving  wonderfully  good.  One  represents  a  man  sitting 
on  the  tips  of  a  shark's  open  jaws,  the  square,  well-carved 
hands  resting  on  his  knees.  One  old  god  laughably  re- 
sembles our  Dante-esque  poet  friend,  George  Sterling. 

Ramana  wanted  spot  cash  silver  shillings  for  his  goods, 
and  his  hoarse  whispers  aside  to  the  trader,  to  put  up 
prices  and  protect  him,  were  very  human  indeed.  He  was 
well  pleased  with  seven  shillings  for  five  of  the  posts,  and  I 
forget  what  we  paid  for  the  other  three,  one  of  which  Mar- 
tin spoke  for.  There  were  several  less  ornate  poles  in  the 
building,  with  capitals  half-Gothic  and  some  nearly  Doric. 
But  we  had  to  consider  our  already  cluttered  space  aboard, 
and  reluctantly  turned  to  smaller  curiosities  such  as  cala- 


364  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARR 

bashes,  nose-rings,  bracelets,  and  kai-kai  spoons  that  looked 
like  beautiful  shoe-horns  of  turtle  shell,  nautilus,  and 
mother-of-pearl. 

Ramana  led  us  through  quite  a  maze  of  little  streets  into 
a  mysterious,  dusky,  musty  old  ruin,  and,  when  we  grew  used 
to  the  unwindowed  gloom,  we  made  out,  high  on  a  shelf, 
an  enormous  black  calabash  with  scrolled  ends.  They  lifted 
it  down,  in  a  rain  of  dust  and  crawly  things,  and  it  was  big 
enough  to  hold  a  whole  roast  man — and  probably  had  done 
so  on  more  than  one  grisly  occasion.  But  it  was  so  very 
ancient  that  it  fell  into  pieces  when  we  turned  it  about.  I 
was  very  loath  to  give  it  up ;  but  Jack  convinced  me  of  the 
futility  of  getting  it  home  in  any  kind  of  shape.  I  was 
comforted  presently  when  Ramana  found  another  half  as 
big  and  in  good  preservation. 

At  every  cross  street  in  Ete  Ete  stands  a  tall  kingpost, 
brown  and  weather-beaten,  with  an  image  on  it.  One  of 
these  has  a  face  composed  entirely  of  scrolls — like  an  Eng- 
lish judge  with  his  wig  over  his  face. 

In  some  houses,  it  was  explained  to  us,  each  supporting 
post  is  owned  by  a  different  "boy."  I  shall  always  be  won- 
dering how  long  it  will  take  for  old  Ramana 's  depleted  pal- 
ace to  collapse. 

Plaited  grass  bracelets  decorated  the  eaves  of  one  dilapi- 
dated roof.  Everything  is  falling  into  decay  and  disuse, 
and  many  of  the  places  are  empty,  for  the  people  are  dying 
off  slowly  but  steadily.  There  are  few  children  born,  and 
most  of  these  have  dreadful  perforating  sores.  We  saw  one 
pretty  baby  sitting,  actually  sitting  on  buttocks  that  were 
nearly  corroded  off  with  running  corruption.  It  turned 
whimpering  from  us  on  the  high  platform  under  the  eaves 
and  crawled  away;  and,  as  like  as  not,  a  healthy  native 
was  soon  sitting  in  the  filthy,  infectious  spot. 

A  scant  few  of  the  natives  have  soft  brown  hair,  like  the 
girl  on  Santa  Anna.  The  women  here  at  Ugi  wear  a  long 
chemise-like  garment,  but  are  otherwise  much  the  same  in 
type  as  the  Port  Mary  ones. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  365 

The  village  must  have  been  very  beautiful  in  its  heyday, 
with  its  king-posted  corners  and  handsome  thatched  houses. 
And  there  is  a  thatched  fence  enclosing  the  village,  over 
which  one  goes  on  stiles  made  of  logs.  Men  have  their  dogs 
here,  too,  a  sneaking  breed  resembling  the  "dingo"  of  Aus- 
tralia, and  looking  to  us  like  our  California  coyote. 

We  dipped  a  little  way  into  the  woods,  which  were  very 
lovely,  all  lighted  up  with  red  and  yellow  flowered  trees, 
and  warm  like  a  conservatory,  with  little  lizards  rustling  the 
stillness  as  they  darted  across  the  paths  and  up  the  viny 
tree  trunks. 

In  the  afternoon  of  yesterday,  Mr.  Hammond  took  us  fish- 
dynamiting  around  a  point  of  the  island.  We  rowed  in  a 
painted  world  of  water  and  sky,  the  emerald  and  sapphire 
deeps  so  clear  we  could  see  the  shadowy  white  sand  below, 
and  uprising  from  it  entrancing  coral  gardens — great  hum- 
mocks of  flowered  colour,  brown  with  blue  tips,  red  and 
yellow.  Certain  of  the  bunches  spread  as  high  as  forty  feet 
from  the  bottom.  Sometimes  the  forms  branched,  and  some- 
times grew  in  mushroom  shapes.  In  the  lovely  opal  spaces 
between  and  underneath,  all  sorts  of  brilliant  coloured  fish 
hung,  or  darted  about  as  we  stirred  the  surface.  One  ex- 
pected golden-haired  mermaids  to  swim  out  in  the  tinted 
underglooms  of  the  coral. 

To-day,  after  our  noisy  forenoon,  we  have  traded  peace- 
fully on  deck,  the  natives  bringing  out  things  they  learned 
yesterday  would  tempt  us.  We  have  more  of  the  Rubiana 
bracelets,  and  a  couple  of  exquisitely  fine  basket-bags  from 
the  Santa  Cruz  Islands.  Jack  is  happy  over  scores  of 
beautifully  wrought  pearl-shell  fish-hooks,  great  and  small, 
and  we  have  packed  them  into  carved  boxes  of  wood  and 
etched  bamboo,  with  sliding  tops.  These  boxes  are  used  for 
lime,  which  the  natives  carry  and  eat  frequently.  We  saw 
one  or  two  doing  this  at  Port  Mary. 

Jack  has  traded  my  much-jeered-at  Apian  lava-lava,  the 
snaky  horror  of  undulating  coloured  lines,  to  a  tall  fellow 


366  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

who  went  over-rail  into  his  canoe  and  put  it  on  in  place  of 
the  dingy  small-cloth,  hung  back  and  front,  in  which  he 
came  aboard.  He  holds  the  new  lava-lava  in  place  by  a 
broad  thin  hip-band  of  shiny  bark  that  makes  him  look  like 
a  bronze  figure  with  a  metal  girdle  close  welded. 

Some  of  the  men  are  pot-bellied  and  unlovely  of  line,  and 
some  are  degenerate  of  feature,  with  small  heads,  and  re- 
ceding chins  with  hollows  underneath.  But  these  are  off- 
set by  many  fine  specimens.  One  of  them  stood  at  the  bow 
of  a  whaleboat,  tall,  lustreless  black,  supple,  poised  with  a 
stick  of  dynamite  in  his  hand,  and  we  pleasured  in  the 
grace  and  precision  of  him  in  the  throwing,  and  the  per- 
fectness  of  his  dive  after  the  gleaming  white-and-silver  fish 
that  popped  to  the  surface  after  the  detonation. 

When  our  guests  were  gone  this  evening,  and  the  crew 
were  breathing  deep  in  slumber  on  the  deck  amidship,  Jack 
and  I  stole  aft  and  sat  on  the  rail  in  the  starred  darkness 
of  sky  and  water — just  sat  and  talked  low  of  the  romance 
of  the  adventure  of  ''Man,  the  most  unseaworthy  of  all  the 
earth  brood,"  and  we  joyed  quietly  in  our  fortune  that  we 
care  for  "the  old  trail,  the  out  trail,  our  own  trail,"  that 
calls  us  over  the  world. 


Indispensable  Straits, 
Sunday,  July  5,  1908. 

We  put  merrily  to  sea  again  this  morning,  carrying  five 
nationalities — for  Mr.  Drew  and  his  black  boys  accompanied 
us,  and  all  took  part  in  the  working  of  the  ship.  The  en- 
gine started  off  well,  but  exasperatingly  quit  shortly  after- 
ward. "Adrift  in  the  cannibal  isles,"  Martin  popped  up 
from  his  tiny  hatch,  getting  a  breath  of  relief  from  the  con- 
glomeration of  gases  below. 

There  is  an  ill-concealed,  amused  interest  being  mani- 
fested toward  me.  An  Ugi  mosquito  bite  has  refused  to 
heal,  and  although  I  am  obediently  saturating  it  with  cor- 
rosive sublimate,  I  do  not  believe  it  is  a  "Solomon  Island 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  367 

sore."    But  Jack  and  the  chortling,  doctoring  crew  hold 
other  views. 

...  In  a  wonderful  sunset  of  all  the  blatant  colours  of 
the  East,  Mr.  Drew  held  High  Church  service,  his  black 
disciples  taking  part,  with  our  Tahitians  reverently  kneel- 
ing by.  Japan  hovered  on  the  edges,  respectfully  curious. 
The  Egyptian  scarfs  in  the  sky  faded  to  changeable  silken 
veils,  and  we  slipped  along  in  a  world  of  trembling  azure 
isles,  while  the  moon  blossomed  large  and  golden  in  the  east. 
And  then,  in  the  midst  of  savagedom,  there  floated  up  from 
the  phonograph  in  the  cabin,  "Guide  me,  0  Thou  Great 
Jehovah!" 

July  G,  1908. 

Jack  kept  the  deck  all  night,  for  we  had  the  slightest  of 
breezes,  and  treacherous  currents  almost  carried  us  on  Mura, 
an  eighty-foot-high  islet  with  a  nasty  reef.  How  we  did 
strain  our  eyes  on  the  dim  dun  shape,  and  strain  our  ears 
to  the  swish  of  the  light  breakers,  and  pore  over  the  unre- 
liable chart  on  the  cabin  table!  Morning  found  us  about 
parallel  with  the  northeast  end  of  San  Christoval  and  the 
southwest  point  of  Malaita,  which  stretches  over  a  hundred 
miles  to  the  northeast. 

Looking  over  Captain  Warren's  log,  I  find  that  he  never 
kept  it  after  April  19,  at  Pago  Pago,  Tutuila — and  then 
only  put  down  the  date,  without  note  or  comment. 

If  we  should  be  wrecked  now,  what  a  floating  museum 
would  be  all  about,  for  we  are  laden  with  spoils,  even  to  the 
life-boat  on  deck,  which  carries  the  precious  old  calabashes. 

A  mild  breeze  came  up  in  the  afternoon  and  we  set  the 
spinnaker.  Shortly  after,  Mr.  Drew 's  whaleboat  line  parted, 
and  every  one  jumped  to  Jack's  orders  to  take  in  spinnaker 
and  work  back  for  the  boat  with  its  apprehensive  black 
steersman.  It  was  surprising  to  find  how  scared  he  was; 
but  Mr.  Drew  says  these  people  get  into  a  "blue  funk"  very 
easily,  and  are  not  to  be  depended  upon  in  time  of  danger. 


368  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Pennduffryn   Plantation, 
Island  of  Guadalcanal, 

Solomon  Islands, 
Thursday,  July  9,  1908. 

Here  I  find  myself,  in  the  queerest  situation,  in  a  big 
house  with  a  retinue  of  servants  culled  from  cannibal  tribes, 
on  a  copra  plantation  in  the  heart  of  the  Terrible  Solo- 
mons. I  am  guest  of  the  English  owner  and  his  Aus- 
tralian-French manager,  and  my  own  man  is  gone  across 
the  water  properly  to  enter  the  Snark  at  the  port  of  call, 
Gubutu,  on  Florida  Island  (Ngela).  Incidentally,  this  will 
be  the  third  night  Jack  was  ever  away  from  me.  As  the 
Snark  is  to  be  left  at  Gubutu  to  be  scraped  by  native  div- 
ers, Jack  must  return  in  the  whaleboat ;  so  both  he  and  our 
host,  Mr.  Harding,  convinced  me  to  stay  comfortably  ashore 
and  rest  up,  as  the  return  trip  in  the  open  boat  means  two 
or  three  hours  at  best  in  blistering  sun  and  glare.  Such  a 
life  it  is!  We  found  night  before  last  that  we  could  not 
make  Gubutu  before  dark,  so  dropped  anchor  in  eight 
fathoms  near  this  plantation  house,  which  Mr.  Drew 
knew. 

Mr.  Bernays,  the  manager,  came  out,  and  was  mightily 
pleased  to  find  we  were  the  Snark,  although  he  laughingly 
assured  us  he  would  be  fined  by  the  Government  for  coming 
aboard  a  vessel  that  had  not  entered  at  the  port  of  call. 
While  we  were  talking  with  him,  the  plantation  cutter 
Scorpion  rippled  softly  alongside,  just  in  from  some  other 
island,  and  Tom  Harding  called  across.  Bernays  explained 
us,  and  Harding,  meanwhile  voicing  orders  to  his  crew  of 
black  boys,  invited  us  ashore  for  the  night.  A  most  pictur- 
esque figure  is  this  handsome  Englishman,  of  medium  height 
and  weight,  with  blue  eyes  and  black  lashes  and  hair,  a 
cupid-bow  mouth  with  even  teeth  and  a  small  moustache. 
He  is  clad  in  white  " singlet"  and  white  lava-lava  with 
coloured  border,  and  barefoot.  On  his  head  is  an  enormous 
Baden-Powell,  and  in  his  ears  are  gold  rings  which  lend  a 
Neapolitan  touch,  while  from  his  neck  depends  a  gold  chain 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  369 

with  a  locket  in  which  he  carries  a  miniature  of  his  wife, 
the  Baroness  Eugenie,  a  Castilian.  The  lady  is  now  in  Syd- 
ney, and  her  husband  has  given  me  her  rooms  and  her  par- 
ticular servant,  a  bushy-haired  brown  Malaita  youth  of  fif- 
teen, in  singlet  and  lava-lava,  a  white  shell  armlet,  and  a 
string  of  blue  beads  around  his  neck.  His  name  is  Vaia- 
Buri,  and  he  has  a  partly  concealed  superciliousness  in  his 
port  that  makes  one  speculate  on  what  he  might  do  if  he 
weren't  afraid  to  do  it.  Nakata,  whom  Jack  left  with  me, 
is  vastly  interesting  to  the  blacks. 

Mr.  Harding 's  partner,  George  Darbishire,  is  also  absent. 
Their  business  is  trading  and  copra,  and  there  are  some  five 
hundred  acres  under  cultivation.  They  have  three  vessels — 
the  cutter  Scorpion,  a  ketch  called  Hekla,  and  the  schooner 
Eugenie — pride  of  Harding 's  heart,  built  on  his  idea  of 
American  lines. 

The  house  is  composed  of  four  houses,  two  very  large,  and 
one  small  one  off  Mrs.  Harding 's  quarters,  used  as  bathroom 
and  dressing  room.  The  cook  house  makes  the  fourth.  The 
buildings  are  enclosed  in  a  long  "compound,"  and  no 
strange  "boy"  is  permitted  therein.  Also,  no  native  boy 
except  a  house-boy  is  ever  even  allowed  on  the  porches. 
"Can  you  trust  your  men  on  the  Snark?"  was  one  of  Hard- 
ing's  first  questions  to  Jack. 

As  a  precaution  against  escapes  from  the  plantation,  or 
worse,  our  whaleboat  had  to  be  sent  back  to  the  yacht  for 
the  night.     They  tell  us  of  shocking  murders  of  late,  sev- 
eral schooners  having  been  ' '  cut  out ' '  and  burned,  and  their  j 
masters  killed.     The  latest  outrage  was  early  in  June,  at  \ 
Marovo  Lagoon  on  the  Island  of  New  Georgia  to  the  north-  ^ 
west,  where  the  captain,  Oliver  Burns,  was  tomahawked,  and 
his  vessel  destroyed. 

In  my  charmingly  furnished  boudoir  there  is  a  rack  of 
rifles,  always  loaded  and  ready,  and  I  am  to  keep  my  re- 
volver with  me  night  and  day.  There  is  always  danger 
from  an  uprising  of  the  plantation  boys. 

It  would  look  as  if  we  had  really  arrived.  .  .  . 


370  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Day  before  yesterday's  sail  was  in  a  fair  breeze,  along 
the  coast  of  this  magnificent  island,  Guadalcanal,  with  dread 
Malaita  looming  to  starboard,  and  Ngela,  our  destination, 
dim  ahead.  About  noon  we  passed  a  little  islet,  Nura, 
which  looked  to  be  under  cultivation.  The  water  had  lost 
its  deep  sea  tones,  and  was  sparkling  grey  under  the  hot  sun, 
and  in  the  late  afternoon  we  saw  a  sharp  demarkation  ahead, 
as  startling  as  that  off  Santa  Anna.  This  time  it  was  no 
trick  of  light,  but  actual  discolouration  from  river  waters. 
The  plantation  is  bounded  to  the  west  by  the  Balesuna,  a 
shallow  tropical  stream,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  slough  to  the 
east,  where  alligator  traps  are  always  set. 

As  we  approached  Pennduffryn  that  night,  I  hated  to  take 
the  wheel  and  ponder  the  compass,  night  was  so  beautiful 
and  there  was  so  much  to  see.  The  mountains,  away  back 
on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  rise  to  8000  feet,  the  near- 
est peak,  Lion's  Head,  thrusting  up  superbly  into  the  sky. 
There  was  a  deafening  chorus  of  crickets  from  the  shore, 
and  I  could  hear  the  neigh  of  a  horse.  Harding  has  two 
slender  thoroughbreds,  by  the  way,  and  a  shed  outside  full 
of  saddles  and  gear. 

These  four  houses  are  high  up  on  piling,  with  an  arrange- 
ment of  iron  pans  on  the  piles  to  keep  out  ants.  Looped 
lengths  of  spare  anchor  chain,  painted  black,  are  slung  on 
the  floor-beams.  Sometimes  we  can  hear  the  horses  fussing 
around  underneath,  out  of  the  steaming  sun.  One  lives  in 
a  succession  of  temblors,  for  every  human  step  rocks  the 
stilted  dwellings.  From  the  high  verandas  that  encircle 
them,  one  can  observe  the  immediate  life  of  the  compound. 
The  three  main  buildings  are  in  line,  first  the  bathroom,  then 
the  house  where  are  my  quarters,  a  large  drawing-room,  and 
several  other  bedrooms,  and  the  last  house  has  the  offices  and 
a  big  men's  room,  one  ell  containing  the  long  eating  table, 
and  an  English  billiard  table  in  the  main  part. 

Jack  and  I  slept  late  this  morning  in  the  Spanish  lady's 
pretty  room;  and  when  we  were  ready  for  breakfast  we 
summoned  Vaia-Buri,  who  served  breakfast  on  the  veranda 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  371 

— fresh  soft-boiled  eggs,  coffee,  and  "scones" — what  we 
would  call  soda  biscuits,  and  hard  as  stones.  The  Solomon 
cook  has  a  terrible  time  with  his  memory.  Never  is  he 
known  to  make  anything  twice  the  same,  except  split-pea 
soup,  and  the  discouraged  planters  have  it  at  every  meal. 

Yesterday  we  brought  all  our  curios  ashore,  to  be  boxed 
for  San  Francisco.  We  also  added  our  phonograph  to  the 
three  already  in  the  men's  room,  and  Claude  Bernays 
threatens  to  wear  out  Caruso's  record  of  the  Brindisi  Drink- 
ing Song. 

Although  less  than  four  years  built,  this  establishment 
has  an  old  and  settled  look.  It  must  be  because  of  the  com- 
fortable scale  on  which  it  is  conducted,  and  the  luxuries  of 
civilisation  that  crowd  the  drawing-room.  In  fact,  the 
fine  curios  all  about  strike  one  as  rather  foreign !  And  just 
about  the  time  you  are  thinking  that,  a  chorus  of  blood- 
curdling shrill  yells  raises  on  the  beach,  and  you  run  to  the 
veranda  to  see  a  whaleboat  rushing  out  of  the  breakers  and 
up  to  the  compound,  on  the  shining  shoulders  of  fifty  black 
boys. 

Mr.  Harding  took  me  for  a  walk  this  afternoon  about  the 
plantation,  a  bewildering  network  of  palmy  paths  among 
flourishing  young  cocoanuts,  and  little  bridges  over  water- 
ways, for  the  ground  is  frequently  inundated.  The  palms 
are  young  and  squat,  but  extremely  luxuriant.  There  are 
acres  of  Ceylon  rubber  trees  as  well.  Little  white  cocka- 
toos flitted  among  rustling  foliage  so  green  it  cast  a  green 
shadow.  One  field  is  given  up  to  vegetables,  tomatoes,  corn 
and  potatoes.  Think  of  having  corn  on  the  cob  again,  and 
string  beans!  I  saw  the  boys  at  work,  and  they  did  not 
look  enthusiastic.  I  noticed  a  new  kink  in  decoration— 
pig-tails,  freshly  severed,  pulled  through  the  holes  in  ears 
and  noses!  They  also  wore  in  artificial  orifices  safety-pins, 
wire  nails,  metal  hairpins,  rusty  iron  handles  of  cooking 
utensils,  and  some  had  cheap  "trade"  penknives  clasped  on 
their  woolly  black  locks  for  safe  keeping.  On  the  chest 
of  one  sweating  labourer  I  noticed  the  brass  wheel  of  a  clock. 


372  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

These  men  work  hard  and  long  hours,  on  a  fare  of  sweet 
potatoes  (kumara),  nothing  but  sweet  potatoes,  boiled. 
Some  of  them  have  to  walk  half  an  hour  to  the  midday  meal 
— sweet  potatoes.  Sometimes  they  may  catch  a  fish,  or  come 
by  a  few  bananas.  But  sweet  potatoes  form  practically 
their  exclusive  diet.  Any  stealing  of  cocoanuts  is  severely 
punished.  It  is  the  "rule  of  the  strong  hand,"  and  one 
can  only  look  and  listen.  Comment  would  be  silly  and 
futile. 

I  saw  the  barracks  after  working  hours,  the  " Marys,"  as 
the  women  are  known  here,  about  the  cooking  of  the  dinner 
of  sweet  potatoes — which,  by  the  way,  are  not  very  sweet, 
but  like  a  cross  with  a  white  potato,  and  of  excellent  quality. 
The  men  lay  around  resting,  or  were  squatting  in  small  low 
houses,  some  of  them  playing  on  plaintive  little  reed  pipes. 
The  Marys  are  not  pretty,  and  are  held  in  low  esteem  by 
their  menkind,  isolated  in  disgrace  when  sick,  as  things  un- 
clean. A  few  pot-bellied  babies  sprawled  about.  Harding 
told  me  of  a  delegation  of  boys  who  came  to  him  one  day  and 
demanded  that  the  drinking-tank  should  be  emptied,  wasted, 
because  a  woman  who  was  not  sick  had  taken  water  for  one 
who  was  sick.  "One  fella  Mary,  she  take  watter  along  one 
fella  Mary  she  sick  too  much.  No  good ! ' '  Harding  tried  to 
treat  the  matter  lightly,  and  faced  mutiny.  So  the  perfectly 
good  contents  of  the  tank  were  thrown  out  and  the  tank  re- 
plenished with  undefined  water. 

Besides  sores,  and  bush-poisoning,  and  a  disease  called 
bukua  (pronounced  buck-wah)  that  makes  the  skin  grey 
and  in  a  pattern  like  ringworm,  the  plantation  hands  are 
subject  to  an  acute  and  terrible  dysentery  that  takes  them 
off  fast.  I  saw  the  hospital — a  long  thatched  shed  furnished 
solely  with  an  inclined  bed  of  hard  board  the  full  length  of 
one  wall. 

At  sunset,  before  supper,  Mr.  Harding  took  me  swimming 
down  by  the  little  jetty,  where  the  sea  spread  white  ruffles, 
frill  upon  frill,  on  the  creamy-pink  sand.  We  supped  in 
the  drawing-room,  he  and  Mr.  Bernays  and  I,  all  in  even- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  373 

ing  dress.  We  were  served  by  Vaia-Buri,  who  is  very 
meek  and  lowly  in  the  presence  of  "big  fella  marster  be- 
long white  man/'  and  another  house-boy  yclept  Ornfere,  a 
delicate-featured,  poet-browed  lad.  Never  did  a  formal 
dinner  party  hear  such  commands  as  Harding  and  Bernays 
gave  the  " niggers/'  as  they  habitually  style  the  boys. 
Harding  desires  a  bottle  of  claret: 

"Vaia-Buri,  you  sawee  go  catch  along  him  fella  bottel  be- 
long me  fella — quick!" 

Or: 

"Ornfere,  you  fella  go  sing  out  along  Vaia-Buri  tell  him 
fella  he  come  along  me  fella.  Sawee?" 

Sometimes  a  few  extra  "fellas"  are  peppered  upon  the 
commands,  as  if  the  speaker  were  determined  at  all  per- 
sonal cost  to  make  a  complete  maniac  of  the  bewildered  and 
scared  idiot  before  him.  Harding  elucidates  at  length  that 
it  is  the  height  of  foolhardiness  to  be  pleasant  or  apprecia- 
tive with  them;  that  they  regard  kindness  as  fear  or  cow- 
ardice, and  are  likely  to  take  serious  advantage  of  it;  that 
a  Solomon  Islander's  first  thought  upon  meeting  a  white 
man  is:  "Will  he  kill  me?"  And,  if  his  judgment  re- 
assures him,  his  second  thought  is:  "Can  I  kill  him?" 
They  have  a  passion  for  head-hunting,  and  the  next  thing 
to  a  white  one  is  to  remove  any  other  kind.  If  a  recruit  dies 
on  a  plantation,  his  tribe  require  a  head  from  the  planta- 
tion ;  and  it  does  not  matter  much  whether  it  is  a  big  fella 
marster 's  head  or  that  of  some  other  recruit.  They  await 
their  chance  patiently,  and  frequently  get  their  head. 

The  recruits  sign  on  for  from  one  to  three  years,  at  £6 
a  year.  But  when  a  man's  time  is  up,  he  is  more  than 
likely  to  be  in  debt  to  the  plantation  store  ("sittore")  for 
tobacco,  "calico,"  knives,  and  beads,  or  else  to  have  forfeited 
his  wages  in  fines  for  misbehaviour. 

Not  unnaturally,  they  are  arrant  thieves,  and  appropriate 
everything  they  can  lay  their  hands  on.  The  boat-houses 
are  kept  locked  at  night  to  prevent  the  men  from  stealing 
the  boats  and  running  away.  Harding  told  me  of  a  native 


374  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

who  died,  and  whom  he  buried  alongside  the  boat-house,  as 
the  boys  would  not  go  near  a  dead  body.  Then  there  was 
almost  a  mutiny,  the  boys  vociferating  that  devils  were 
knocking  at  their  door-posts  and  that  the  Marys  had  run 
away  in  fear,  and  the  children  were  ailing.  When  they  be- 
come restless  on  the  plantation,  no  white  fella  marster  is 
rash  enough  to  combat  their  panic  or  their  taboos — tambos 
they  say  here.  Harding  had  to  exhume  the  corpse  unaided, 
as  no  boy  would  touch  it,  and  bury  it  in  another  place. 
Strange  to  say,  the  minute  he  began  filling  in  the  shallow 
grave,  several  husky  blacks  jumped  in  and  began  to  stamp 
it  down. 

But  the  most  remarkable  thing  Harding  has  told  me,  is 
that  a  little  way  south  of  Guadalcanal  are  two  islands,  Bel- 
lona  and  Rennel,  where  the  natives,  of  pure  Polynesian 
blood,  are  still  living  in  the  stone  age — a  very  rare  state  in 
this  day  and  year.  To  the  north  of  the  Solomons,  also,  are 
two  islands,  Lua-nua  and  Tasman,  with  a  nearly  pure  Poly- 
nesian population,  but  these  are  in  touch  with  civilisation, 
as  steamers  call  there.  Mr.  Harding  says  that  Jack  and  I 
will  make  the  mistake  of  our  lives  if  we  do  not  stay  around 
here  a  few  months,  making  Pennduffryn  our  base  for  cruises 
that  are  unmatched  by  anything  left  in  the  world.  I  am 
so  fascinated  by  the  prospect  that  I  have  promised  to  do 
something  I  seldom  attempt — coax  my  husband.  Now  that 
Jack  is  feeling  so  well  on  the  mend,  the  only  reason  we 
should  hurry  through  the  Solomons  is  to  anticipate  the  bad 
weather  season  in  Torres  Straits,  and  get  on  up  to  Batavia 
and  Java. 

Saturday,  July  11,  1908. 

And  my  skipper  says  Yes.  He  is  enthusiastic  over  the 
idea,  and  Mr.  Harding  offers  to  pilot  us  to  Bellona  and  Ren- 
nel when  we  are  ready  to  go.  The  Snark  adventure  is  only 
just  beginning — indeed,  to-morrow  we  do  our  first  real  ex- 
ploring, a  trip  up  the  Balesuna  in  canoes,  to  a  village  where 
no  white  woman  has  been,  and,  a  few  miles  beyond,  a  place 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  375 

where  no  white  man  ever  set  foot.  It  was  up  a  river  farther 
to  the  west  that  the  ill-fated  Austrian  Expedition  explored, 
sent  here  on  the  Austrian  man-o'-war  Albatross  only  a  few 
years  ago.  They  penetrated  into  the  foothills,  made  apparent 
friends  with  the  natives,  let  them  handle  and  grasp  the  sig- 
nificance of  their  firearms.  The  natives  cunningly  bided 
their  time  until  the  white  men  grew  careless  and  confident, 
and  then  massacred  all  but  two  or  three,  who  escaped  to  the 
coast. 

The  village  Saarli  is  in  sight  of  the  foothills,  but  we  do 
not  plan  to  venture  farther.  And  yet,  the  inhabitants  of 
Guadalcanal  are  considered  " friendly"  compared  with  the 
Malaitans ! 

Harding  has  planned  the  trip  for  a  long  time,  and  is  glad 
to  make  this  the  occasion.  He  has  some  sort  of  friendship 
with  the  chiefs  of  these  two  villages — based,  of  course,  on 
what  they  can  get  out  of  him  in  trade  goods,  and,  for  his 
part,  on  the  protection  their  favour  means. 

I  could  not  help  but  scan  anxiously  for  the  returning 
whaleboat  yesterday,  and  had  a  clear  day  for  watching — 
once  so  clear  that  we  could  see  the  sun-flash  on  the  Resident 
Commissioner's  house  on  Ngela.  We  are  delighted  to  find 
that  the  Commissioner  is  none  other  than  Mr.  Woodford, 
author  of  the  book  we  so  often  refer  to.  Mr.  Woodford 
was  unfortunately  absent  when  Jack  sailed  into  Gubutu,  and 
he  had  to  deal  with  a  deputy  who  very  tersely  demanded 
the  penalty  of  five  pounds  for  our  breach  of  quarantine. 
Jack  says  it  is  cheap  at  the  price  when  he  considers  the  six 
hundred  extra  miles  he  would  have  had  to  sail  if  he  had  en- 
tered properly  in  the  first  place,  beat  back  to  see  Port  Mary 
and  then  covered  the  return  trip  to  Pennduffryn.  We  are 
going  to  frame  the  receipt  for  the  fine. 

I  killed  a  little  hawk  at  eighty  yards  this  afternoon,  with 
my  22  Automatic  rifle,  greatly  to  Mr.  Harding 's  surprise, 
I  think.  He  had  been  boasting  of  his  lady  wife 's  fine  marks- 


376  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

manship,  and  I  said  laughingly  that  being  one-eighth 
Spanish  myself,  I  should  like  to  see  what  I  could  do.  They 
wage  war  continually  on  these  small  hawks,  which  kill  the 
pretty  kingfishers  that  build  about  the  place,  and  also  an- 
other species  that  look  like  humming  birds. 

Jack  made  the  whaleboat  trip  from  Gubutu  in  two  hours, 
arriving  here  at  six.  When  I  saw  his  scarlet  sunburn,  I  was 
glad  I  had  not  gone. 

Wednesday,  July  15,  1908. 

The  day  after  Jack's  return,  he  came  down  suddenly  with 
an  attack  of  the  vicious  malaria  one  must  battle  with  in  the 
Solomons.  Promptly  he  went  out  of  his  head,  and  after 
raving  a  while,  fell  asleep  in  the  violent  sweat  we  induced 
with  blankets  and  hot-water  bottles.  In  three  hours  from 
the  time  he  was  stricken,  he  was  on  his  feet,  weak  but  cheer- 
ful, and  enjoyed  a  hearty  dinner.  Mr.  Bernays  played  doc- 
tor and  dosed  the  patient  thoroughly  with  quinine.  I  was 
inclined  to  be  alarmed  by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack,  and 
the  raving  of  the  unconscious  man ;  but  the  matter-of-f actness 
of  Bernays  and  Harding  pulled  me  together. 

.  .  .  There  is  such  a  glamour  over  the  past  three  days  that 
I  hesitate  to  write  about  them.  ' '  Sun  he  come  up ! "  was  our 
pretty  call  from  Vaia-Buri  on  Saturday  morning  early,  and 
before  sun  he  had  got  up  more  than  a  long  way  little  bit,  we 
were  on  the  way  up  the  cool  green-arbour  ed  Balesuna  in 
canoes  paddled,  or  "washee'd,"  by  kinky -haired  servitors. 
Nakata  was  on  his  back  with  malaria,  and  could  not  go. 
Mr.  Harding  and  I  travelled  in  a  canoe  paddled  by  Ornfere 
and  Forndoa,  another  house-boy,  while  Jack  (reinforced  with 
fifteen  grains  of  quinine  against  a  second  bout  of  fever,  and 
rather  shaky  with  the  medicine),  along  with  Bernays  and 
Martin,  came  next.  A  dinghy  carried  the  outfit  of  tents, 
blankets  and  kai-kai. 

The  river  is  too  beautiful  for  words,  narrow  and  tortuous, 


A    Kingpost    and    a    King    (note    Ear-lobes) 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  377 

green  as  a  bower,  the  banks  all  painted  sliding  scenery  of 
verdant  jungle,  trailed  with  vivid  flame-red  blossoms  and 
vari-coloured  morning  glories,  and  mangroves  reaching 
their  fingered  roots  into  the  flowing  green  water  with  its 
bank  reflections. 

We  heard  the  light  clatter  of  parroquets,  and  the  sweet, 
querulous  calls  of  strange  birds.  Once,  the  astounding 
resonant  conch-boom  of  a  hornbill  broke  the  rippling  still- 
ness. We  saw  magnificent  breadfruit  trees  with  their 
knobby,  glossy  fruit,  and  recognised  our  Hawaiian  familiars, 
the  hau  and  lauhala.  Sometimes,  through  a  break  in  dense 
woods  we  could  glimpse  the  Lion's  Head,  "Tatuvi,"  reared 
into  the  everlasting  tropic  clouds. 

We  sped  fast  against  the  slow  current,  and  fought  ex- 
citingly up  occasional  riffles;  and  more  than  once  we  hung 
on  sandbars,  where  great  black  velvet  butterflies,  accom- 
panied by  flocks  of  little  blue  ones,  floated  out  to  see  the  fun. 
The  "boys"  were  certainly  not  lazy,  and  worked  with  a  will 
to  free  the  boats.  Bernays  blasted  fish  in  a  green  pool  at 
one  side  in  a  wide  space,  and,  once,  the  fuse  was  too  short 
and  the  stick  exploded  almost  immediately  it  left  his  hand. 
His  handsome  sullen  face  went  white  under  its  deep  tan. 
11  Every  fellow  that  monkeys  with  the  stuff  gets  his  sooner 
or  later,"  he  observed  carelessly  after  a  moment. 

In  a  clearing  on  the  right  bank  a  group  of  wild  women 
came  hurrying,  clad  in  full  short  ballet-skirts  of  dried 
grasses  that  bobbed  and  wabbled  amorously  at  every  move- 
ment. We  were  evidently  a  pure  novelty  to  them,  for  their 
faces  were  studies  in  startled  wonder. 

Finally  arrived  at  Binu,  late  in  the  afternoon,  we  had  a 
good  supply  of  fish,  and  wild  pigeons  which  we  had  shot  on 
the  way.  There  were  few  villagers  about,  and  the  men  evi- 
dently expected  us.  They  spoke  the  beche  de  mer  English, 
and  were  friendly — in  fact,  most  of  them  are  familiar  with 
the  plantation.  It  is  the  bush  natives  who  seem  to  be  un- 
tameable ;  and  the  ' '  salt  water ' '  peoples,  who  are  not  exactly 
angels  of  mercy  themselves,  are  more  scared  of  their  bush 


378  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

relatives  than  are  the  white  conquerors  from  England  and 
Germany. 

While  our  three  tents  and  kitchen  arrangements  were  be- 
ing set  up  in  a  bosky  grove,  we  looked  about  the  village, 
which  was  notable  principally  for  its  inferiority.  The 
dwellings  lacked  the  imposingness  of  even  those  on  Santa 
Anna  and  Ugi.  There  was  one  large  house  that  we  were 
barred  from  entering,  and  over  the  door  a  crocodile  skull 
with  all  the  teeth  intact.  I  wanted  the  skull,  and  Harding 
broached  the  barter.  There  was  considerable  pow-wow,  but 
the  shillings  won  the  day.  The  women  were  unapproach- 
ably shy,  fleeing  even  from  me,  in  a  giggly  panic  and  flurry 
of  rustling  ballet-skirts.  The  men  whom  Harding  talked 
with  shook  their  heads  ominously  when  they  learned  we  were 
bound  for  Saarli,  and  all  but  two  or  three  resisted  his  prizes 
to  join  the  trip. 

Harding  and  Bernays  were  begged  to  look  at  a  sick  man 
in  a  filthy  hut.  I  was  not  invited,  on  account  of  the  nature 
of  the  ravaging  disease.  Jack  said  it  was  a  horrible  sight. 

After  our  hearty  supper  of  fish,  pigeon,  and  roast  sweet 
potatoes,  we  sat  around  a  small  but  cheery  white-man's 
campfire,  and  Jack  and  I  listened  to  the  outlandish  experi- 
ences of  our  companions — narrow  escapes  from  the  natives 
on  the  Malaita  coast,  and  narrow  escapes  on  reefs  in  bad 
weather.  In  fact,  the  whole  of  life  in  this  "neck  of  the 
woods"  Harding  summed  up  when  he  concluded:  "No  use 
in  any  man  saying  he's  safe  in  the  Solomons,  because  he 
isn't." 

It  was  a  weird  place  to  spend  the  night.  Every  one  slept 
but  me,  and  I  could  hear  the  strange  uneasy  noises  made  by 
our  native  escort  in  their  slumber.  It  was  as  if  they  never 
rested  from  fear,  even  in  sleep.  Then  there  were  crawly 
things  in  the  coarse  damp  grass  outside,  and  queer  sounds  in 
the  distance  and  in  the  trees  and  from  the  river,  while,  near 
at  hand,  the  rasping  song  of  fever  mosquitoes  made  me  glad 
of  our  net.  But  I  did  not  lie  conscious  from  nervousness — 
something  had  flown  in  my  eye  around  the  campfire,  and  it 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  379 

hurt  all  night;  so  that  when  we  struck  camp  early  in  the 
morning,  I  travelled  with  a  thumping  headache. 

The  river  was  more  shallow  and  riffly  hence  on,  and 
the  boys  worked  hard.  The  two  or  three  who  went  on  with 
us  from  Binu  were  augmented  by  a  picturesque  score  at 
least,  unable  to  resist  the  adventure.  Some  of  them  pre- 
ceded us,  and  every  little  while  we  would  be  startled  and 
interested  over  a  handful  of  woolly  savages  ahead  on  a 
sandy  spit,  or  suddenly  appearing  on  the  bank,  only  to  find 
they  were  from  Binu,  and  wanted  to  go  along.  They 
looked  as  if  ready  to  fight  any  common  foe,  armed  with 
bows  and  arrows,  spears,  and  naked  trade  knives  stuck 
through  bark  or  leather  belts  about  their  hips.  Bernays 
assured  us,  however,  that  they  were  just  as  likely  to  desert 
as  stay,  in  event  of  trouble.  Bernays  retains  no  illusions 
about  the  "niggers,"  as  he  invariably  calls  them. 

Some  of  these  islanders  are  the  biggest  men  we  have  seen 
since  Samoa  and  Fiji — indeed,  the  people  of  Guadalcanal 
are  said  to  be  the  best  bodied  in  the  Solomons.  I  saw  some 
remarkable  types  of  other  peoples,  particularly  of  the  Se- 
mitic; and  one  old  man  with  a  lofty  mien  and  a  beard, 
might  have  been  a  king  in  Babylon. 

It  was  a  spiteful,  squally  day,  and  once  we  were  driven 
to  take  refuge  ashore  under  an  umbrageous  tree,  where  we 
ate  a  brief  lunch  of  soggy  scones  and  jam.  When  the  rain 
eased,  we  climbed  the  steep  bank,  to  learn  what  sort  of  coun- 
try our  eyes,  first  of  all  blue  eyes,  would  see  behind  the 
fringe  of  river  vegetation.  And  what  we  beheld  made  Ber- 
nays and  Harding  curse  under  their  breath  with  the  rich 
wonder  and  possibility  of  it — a  boundless  champaign  of 
grassland,  league  upon  league  of  it  rippling  in  the  wind, 
sloping  almost  imperceptibly  to  low  foothills  that  flank  the 
upthrusting  mountains  about  the  Lion's  Head.  The  grass 
was  very  long  and  rank,  green  beyond  description,  and  in 
the  eyes  of  the  planters  as  we  stood  there,  long,  and  silently, 
were  dreams  of  the  wealthy  future  when  not  they,  but  those 
to  come  after  them,  should  see  their  cane  harvested  on  these 


380  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

illimitable  plains  and  the  sugar  transported  to  waiting 
steamships  at  great  wharves  on  the  coast. 

We  walked  back  quietly  to  the  boats,  Harding  being 
especially  overcome  by  what  he  had  seen.  "I  knew  it  was 
there,"  he  said;  " — I  knew  it  had  to  be  there;  but  I  didn't 
dream  the  immensity  of  the  savannah. " 

By  two  in  the  afternoon  we  were  scaling  a  muddy  river 
bluff  to  Saarli,  which  was  only  an  excuse  for  a  village,  the 
scant  inhabitants  of  which  had  a  way  of  fading  away  when 
scrutinised  too  closely.  The  men  recovered  themselves,  but 
the  women  remained  bashful.  Only  my  interest  in  the 
babies  would  stay  them  for  more  than  a  few  minutes. 

My  head  was  pounding  so  badly  that  I  lay  down  most  of 
the  time.  There  was  not  much  to  see  anyway — it  was 
mainly  the  fact  of  being  there,  the  first  white  faces,  that 
constituted  the  novelty.  We  walked  to  where  we  could 
again  view  the  grass-waving  savannah,  and  the  natives  shook 
their  heads  and  contorted  their  faces  over  their  atrocious 
brothers  of  the  bush,  when  we  pointed  to  the  foothills  now 
not  far  away,  and  made  motions  as  if  we  wanted  them  to 
take  us  there. 

Harding 's  brain  was  in  a  buzz  over  what  he  was  seeing. 
He  studied  those  hilly  approaches  to  the  mountain  strong- 
holds of  the  head-hunters,  and  in  the  evening  went  so  far 
as  to  suggest  to  Jack  that  they  get  up  an  expedition  into 
the  bush,  some  time  during  our  stay  at  Pennduffryn.  Jack 
said,  ' '  Sure ! "  in  his  easy  way ;  and  then  I  was  frightened, 
for  this  would  mean  a  man-trip,  and  I  would  have  to  face 
being  left  behind  to  await  nameless  horrors;  for  know  that 
the  wily  man-eaters  of  the  bush  have  their  paths  and  run- 
ways full  of  pitfalls  and  poisoned  traps — such  as  horrid 
contrivances  where  a  man  steps  on  something  that  lets  loose 
a  poisoned  dart  from  a  strung  bow  at  the  side,  and  various 
and  crafty  and  deadly  other  manners  of  obtaining  the  heads 
of  enemies  or  friends  for  the  smoking.  I  said  very  little, 
only,  "Would  you  go?"  Women  who  would  keep  their 
men  have  learned  in  long  ages  gone  not  to  stand  in  the  way 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  381 

of  heart's  desire,  even  where  it  leads  afield.  Of  Harding 
I  learned  more  of  the  dangers  than  I  had  read  in  the  books. 
He  had  burned  himself  out  a  little,  perhaps,  for  presently, 
sensing  my  worry,  he  said: 

"I'll  tell  you — I  won't  say  anything  more  about  it  to 
Jack."  I  thought  that  very  "decent"  of  him,  as  he  would 
say,  but  turned  it  off  with,  "Oh,  well,  but  if  he  wants  to 
go  .  .  ."  However,  aside  from  much  interesting  conversa- 
tion about  general  conditions  in  the  interior,  Jack  has  not 
pursued  the  subject.  Oh — it  might  be  done,  and  safely;  but 
it  is  a  ticklish  risk. 

There  was  rain  during  the  night,  and  we  had  a  damp  and 
soggy  time  of  it,  with  broken  sleep.  I  for  one  was  glad  of 
the  morning  sunshine  and  a  dry  place  with  Jack  in  the 
dinghy,  which  followed  Bernays'  canoe. 

The  Saarli  natives  were  hugely  pleased  with  the  remainder 
of  our  kai-kai,  and  watched  us  from  the  bluff  as  we  got  under 
way.  The  morning  was  a  bright  Elysium,  after  the  dank 
rain,  the  Lion's  Head  thrust  through  a  cloud-wreath  against 
a  blue  sky,  and  the  abundant  foliage  on  the  river's  brink 
shining  and  sparkling.  We  saw  a  hornbill  on  a  high 
branch,  and  some  one  shot,  but  missed  it. 

There  were  some  close  calls  from  capsizing  in  the  riffles 
and  on  snags  in  our  swift  water-flight,  and  we  often  profited 
by  Bernays'  disastrous  haps  on  ahead.  Harding 's  canoe 
hung  up  on  a  snag  and  came  away  with  a  hole  in  the  bot- 
tom. From  Harding 's  face  and  eloquent  fists  we  judged 
he  was  using  language  and  that  the  boys  were  having  a  warm 
time  of  it. 

So  fast  did  we  travel,  however,  what  of  current  and  oars 
and  paddles,  that  we  were  at  the  plantation  in  less  than 
three  hours.  There  we  found  George  Darbishire,  returned 
from  Sydney  by  the  Burns  Philp  steamer  Moresby.  Dar- 
bishire is  a  big  blond  Englishman,  vastly  tall,  very  pink, 
and  so  lovable  a  personality  that  to  shake  his  long,  kind, 
freckled  hand  is  to  find  a  friend. 

Perhaps  the  utter  dissimilarity  of  Darbishire  and  Harding, 


382  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

physically  and  mentally,  may  account  for  the  devoted 
friendship  that  evidently  exists  between  them.  They  are 
very  close,  and,  from  certain  signs,  we  fear  they  are  in  some 
trouble,  concerning  which  * i  Darby, ' '  as  every  one  calls  him, 
took  the  trip  to  Sydney.  He  brought  bad  news  of  the  Eu- 
genie, too,  having  heard  at  Gubutu  that  she  is  on  a  reef  on 
Malaita.  Harding  wears  a  very  long  face  for  so  round  a 
face,  for  the  schooner  is  the  idol  of  all  his  possessions.  Jack 
has  put  the  Snark  at  his  disposal  to  take  back  to  Malaita  a 
bunch  of  "boys"  who  have  finished  their  term  on  the  plan- 
tation. Jack  says  I  may  go,  but  Harding  strongly  dis- 
approves— has  ideas  about  where  "a  woman"  should  go  and 
not  go — wouldn't  let  his  wife  travel  to  Malaita  on  the 
Eugenie,  nor  would  he  allow  me  to  do  so.  (We  had  sug- 
gested going  on  one  of  her  recruiting  trips.)  I  wonder  how 
he  reconciles  his  censorship  with  my  many  months  on  the 
Snark. 

Darbishire  quotes  Kipling  voluminously,  and  is  overjoyed 
that  we  love  him  also.  We  lounge  in  long  chairs  on  the 
verandas,  and  watch  through  our  eyelashes  the  occasional 
dim  schooners  and  cutters  plying  the  sparkling  level  of  In- 
dispensable Straits,  and  listen  to  our  favourite  poems  as  Dar- 
bishire recites  them,  no  matter  how  long,  from  Me  Andrews' 
Hymn  to  the  Recessional. 

From  July  15  to  August  8,  we  spent  at  Pennduffryn,  with 
the  exception  of  an  abortive  start  for  Bellona  and  Rennel, 
on  July  24.  Jack  beat  me  to  the  fever,  coming  down  sud- 
denly one  day.  The  heat  flared  up  in  him,  he  went  promptly 
out  of  his  head  and  thus  missed  consciousness  of  the  severer 
aches  and  pains,  and  in  three  hours  was  almost  quite  him- 
self again — merely  a  little  weak.  A  few  days  after  I  had 
a  touch  of  it,  but  only  a  touch,  which  led  me  to  hope  I  might 
escape  any  bad  attacks.  And  I  took  the  first  quinine  of 
my  life ! 

Harding  had  implored  the  boon  of  piloting  the  Snark  to 
Bellona  and  Rennel,  and  requested  that  we  let  him  take  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  383 

crew  of  his  own  boys,  to  which  Jack  consented,  although 
he  and  I  much  preferred  otherwise. 

The  Snark  got  under  way  at  six  A.  M.,  after  waiting  all 
night  for  a  "land  breeze"  Harding  said  never  failed  after 
sunset.  We  were  simply  cluttered  with  the  black  crew, 
who,  whatever  they  might  or  might  not  be  on  the  Scorpion, 
were  perfect  numbskulls  on  the  Snark.  Harding 's  temper 
was  not  improved  by  their  stupidity  before  us  under  his 
orders,  and  their  utter  vacuity  under  Jack  or  Henry  on 
their  watches.  I  could  hear  exasperated  inarticulate  "lan- 
guage" of  both  the  latter  when  they  tried  to  accomplish 
anything  with  the  stranger  crew,  especially  in  the  fierce 
squalls  we  encountered.  Although  Jack  had  paid  for  the 
scraping  of  the  Snark's  copper  by  divers  at  Gubutu,  she 
several  times  refused  to  come  about,  and  he  could  only  con- 
clude that  she  was  badly  barnacled — which  Darbishire  later 
discovered  to  be  the  case  when  he  sent  his  boys  under  to 
investigate. 

We  did  not  get  far,  what  of  light  adverse  airs  and  per- 
verse currents,  but  beat  our  way  around  the  first  point,  a 
few  miles  west  of  the  plantation,  where  we  went  to  anchor 
in  the  company  of  two  other  ketches  that  were  in  the 
same  case.  The  Eugenie  (the  report  of  her  going  ashore 
had  been  a  joke  of  Darbishire 's)  bound  with  recruits  for 
Malaita,  sailed  by,  her  larger  sail  plan  enabling  her  to  out- 
sail the  rest  of  us.  But  she  suddenly  turned  around  and 
ran  back  to  Pennduffryn,  much  to  Harding 's  discomfiture, 
for  he  had  launched  into  praises  of  his  pet.  Later  in  the 
day  we  weighed  anchor  and  went  ahead  a  few  miles,  during 
which  we  encountered  the  squalls  and  had  the  trouble  about 
tacking. 

Harding  had  a  severe  sick  headache,  and  was  anything  but 
a  cheerful  comrade.  His  squally  watch  from  eight  to  twelve 
that  black  night,  with  his  scared  and  inadequate  "niggers," 
was  a  rather  pitifully  ludicrous  incident — for  us.  Every- 
thing was  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  the  general  disgust  re- 
sulted in  a  change  of  course  that  blew  us  back  to  Pennduffryn 


384  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

in  the  early  dawn.  I  went  on  deck  at  seven,  and  could  not 
believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  Darbishire  and  Bernays  manip- 
ulating signal  flags  in  the  most  absurd  messages  to  us,  which 
did  not  in  the  least  cheer  up  poor  Harding. 

We  found  the  Eugenie  at  anchor,  and  on  the  veranda  her 
mainsail  was  being  mended  of  a  bad  rent.  Wada  was  tot- 
tering around  after  an  attack  of  fever  that  had  kept  him 
from  the  ill-fated  Bellona  and  Rennel  cruise,  Nakata  having 
taken  his  place  as  cook  and  acquitted  himself  splendidly. 
An  observant  stripling,  Nakata. 

Next  day,  Wada  was  pacing  the  deck  of  the  Snark  in  a 
blue  funk  over  the  fever,  and  over  a  skin  irritation  called 
ngari-ngari  that  itches  and  burns  like  a  thousand  attacks 
of  poison  oak.  The  native  name  means  scratch-scratch.  I 
have  a  touch  of  it  myself,  so  I  can  sympathise.  It  is  a 
vegetable  poisoning,  and  we  have  learned  that  the  Sophie 
Sutherland  (Jack's  old  sealing  schooner)  which  came  to  the 
Solomons  some  years  back,  lost  her  crew  from  ngari-ngari. 
They  went  into  the  hills,  were  poisoned  by  the  bush,  scratched 
themselves  without  control  and  without  antiseptics,  and 
ended  in  a  terrible  fester  that  caused  their  deaths. 

Nakata  has  suffered  two  severe  attacks  of  fever,  but  con- 
tinues inexhaustibly  cheerful.  Henry  had  a  milder  attack, 
and  refused  Jack 's  quinine  capsules  because  they  did  not  look 
like  the  tablets  dispensed  by  the  doctor  at  Tutuila.  Martin 
was  so  downcast  over  his  ulcers,  that  he  was  badly  dis- 
affected and  almost  ready  to  quit  the  Snark  at  the  prospect 
of  several  months  in  the  Archipelago ;  but  he  became  so  inter- 
ested in  the  social  life  ashore,  the  billiards,  and  poker,  and 
various  mild  gambling,  that  he  changed  his  mind. 

Ornfere's  cooking  lapsed  to  such  an  extent  that  Har- 
ding was  glad  for  us  to  bring  Wada  ashore,  until  he  went 
sick  with  fever  and  hypochondria.  And  the  anxious, 
poetic-faced  Ornfere's  imitations  of  the  Japanese's  dough- 
nuts, dumplings,  bread,  and  cake,  were  something  ap- 
palling. 

Jack  has  finished  a  beautiful  South  Sea  story  entitled 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  385 

The  Heathen,  based  upon  a  noble  and  sublimated  Tehei,  and 
is  now  deep  in  a  novel — Adventure,  with  the  stage  of  action 
right  here  on  Pennduffryn  Plantation.  He  warns  me  that  I 
need  not  be  surprised  if  he  runs  away  with  his  heroine,  Joan 
Lackland,  as  he  is  quite  falling  in  love  with  her.  Besides 
our  steady  work  these  past  three  weeks  and  over,  we  have 
boxed,  ridden  horseback,  and  swam  at  sunset,  sometimes  in 
tropic  showers  when  the  palms  lay  against  the  stormy  sky 
like  green  enamel  on  a  slate  background — with  ever  an  eye 
for  alligators.  One  was  seen  near  the  Snark,  also  a  shark. 
Tehei  has  enthusiastically  joined  with  Bernays  in  his  trap- 
making  and  -setting,  although  with  no  better  reward  so  far 
than  sand-tracks  and  broken  traps.  Bernays  seeks  their  de- 
struction grimly  and  unceasingly,  for  "They  killed  the  best 
dog  I  ever  had/'  he  says.  Speaking  of  dogs,  there  is  one 
here,  a  jet-black,  large  mongrel  terrier  of  parts,  who  gaily 
answers  to  ' '  Satan ' '  whenever  he  is  called  to  show  off.  Made 
of  coiled  springs,  he  can  jump  straight  into  the  air  to  impos- 
sible heights  for  food  or  sticks,  or  unhusked  cocoanuts  which 
he  incredibly  strips  with  his  teeth  and  claws  in  short  order. 
He  is  the  terror  of  the  "  niggers, "  and  a  word  to  him  clears 
the  compound  of  an  unruly  crowd  in  less  time  than  the 
spoken  command.  Jack  is  putting  him  and  certain  tales  of 
his  valour  into  Adventure.  Sometimes  we  visit  the  "quar- 
ters ' '  after  dark,  armed,  and  escorted  by  Satan. 

Bernays'  devotion  to  the  Brindisi  Drinking  Song  has  in  no 
wise  abated;  only,  he  now  protects  himself  and  the  playing 
record  with  a  tomahawk  in  one  hand  and  a  New  Guinea  club 
in  the  other.  "New  Guinea"  reminds  me  that  aboard  the 
Makambo  one  forenoon  where  we  went  out  to  breakfast,  we 
met  a  Mrs.  Donald  McKay,  whose  husband  is  exploring  in 
New  Guinea.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  lady,  for  she  is  presumably 
as  happy  and  peaceful  in  her  mind  as  I  would  be  if  Jack 
were  in  the  Guadalcanal  bush. 

We  miss  the  pleasant  fruits  of  Polynesia — the  oranges,  and 
bananas,  mangoes,  and  limes.  And  we  should  thrive  better 
if  we  had  them.  Jack  seems  headed  for  another  spell  of  the 


386  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

sickness  of  before  and  during  our  "discovery"  of  the  Solo- 
mons, and  I  am  afraid  of  the  dysentery  for  him,  as  it  has 
broken  loose  among  the  boys,  and  several  are  in  the  pitiful 
shack  dubbed ' '  hospital. ' '  Jack  took  a  look  at  them  the  other 
day.  One,  lying  in  pain  and  dissolution,  had  a  weeping, 
frightened  brother  at  his  feet,  who  could  not  be  made  to 
understand  that  his  noisy  grief  was  deleterious  to  the  sick 
man.  And  the  masters  are  not  happy  over  the  loss  of  their 
boys.  Bernays,  who  works  hard,  says  bitterly:  "They  die 
on  purpose,  the  brutes ! ' '  These  islanders  have  no  more  re- 
sistance than  a  mosquito,  no  hold  on  life,  and  succumb  men- 
tally as  well  as  physically. 

On  August  8,  1908,  'the  ketch  Minota  dropped  in,  and  Cap- 
tain Jansen  renewed  his  invitation  for  the  Malaita  recruiting 
trip.  We  looked  at  each  other,  Jack  and  I,  nodded,  and 
packed  our  grips  and  the  typewriter.  Meanwhile,  Jack  ar- 
ranged that  the  Snark  be  taken  to  Gubutu,  at  which  place 
we  would  join  her  in  a  week  or  ten  days  and  sail  her  to 
Ysabel  Island,  where  we  had  learned  we  could  safely  careen 
and  make  a  raid  on  her  barnacles. 

We  rowed  aboard  the  Minota  after  a  gay  and  festive  din- 
ner, in  a  lovely  night  of  stars  with  a  pleasant  light  breeze 
ruffling  the  spangled  water,  and  slipped  out  to  a  string  of 
Darbishire's  ridiculous  code  messages  winking  from  the  sig- 
nal staff  in  the  compound. 

The  Minota  was  originally  a  gentleman's  yacht  in  Aus- 
tralia— a  beautiful  rakish  thing  of  teak  and  bronze  and  lofty 
cedar,  fin-keeled,  very  fast,  and  now  owned  by  a  wealthy 
planter  of  the  Solomons,  Captain  Sven^on,  a  man  famed 
for  the  number  and  success  of  his  ventures  in  the  Solomons 
and  elsewhere.  She  was  not  much  larger  than  the  Snark, 
but  her  interior  consisted  merely  of  a  main  cabin,  and  one 
stateroom  for'ard.  Captain  Jansen  and  the  mate  would 
have  it  that  we  take  their  quarters,  and  themselves  turned 
in  on  the  long  bunks  in  the  cabin.  The  door  to  our  room 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  387 

still  bore  the  tomahawk  marks  where  the  Malaitans  at  Langa 
Langa  several  months  before  broke  in  for  the  trove  of  rifles 
and  ammunition  locked  therein,  after  bloodily  slaughtering 
Jansen's  predecessor,  Captain  Mackenzie.  The  burning  of 
the  vessel  was  somehow  prevented  by  the  black  crew,  but  this 
was  so  unprecedented  that  the  owner  feared  some  complicity 
between  them  and  the  attacking  party.  However,  it  could 
not  be  proved,  and  we  sailed  with  the  majority  of  this  same 
crew.  The  present  skipper  smilingly  warned  us  that  the  same 
tribe  still  required  two  more  heads  from  the  Minota,  to  square 
up  for  deaths  on  the  Ysabel  plantation. 

Nakata  and  Wada  accompanied  us,  the  latter  in  a  pale 
panic  lest  he  lose  his  precious  head,  the  former  cannily 
alert ;  and,  besides  the  four/  whites  of  us,  the  ship 's  comple- 
ment was  made  up  of  a  double-crew  of  fifteen  and  between 
thirty  and  forty  recruits  who  had  served  their  three  years 
on  Ysabel  and  were  being  returned  to  their  tribespeople. 
And  what  was  my  surprise,  when  I  explored  the  dimly-lighted 
cabin,  to  meet  the  shy,  half-wild  eyes  of  a  kinky-headed 
"Mary"  peering  from  a  dark  cubby  under  the  deck,  behind 
the  companion  steps.  Captain  Jansen  explained  that  a 
Malaitan  chief,  in  return  for  some  favour,  or  to  curry  one, 
had  honoured  him  with  the  gift  of  his  daughter  Tesema — a 
tidy  morsel,  should  big  fella  marster  belong  white  man  choose 
to  kai-kai  the  noble  damsel — for  thus  are  the  poor  females 
disposed  of  at  the  whim  of  their  ruthless  kin. 

1  i  She 's  a  very  embarrassing  parcel, ' '  the  captain  said,  with 
a  grimace  of  distaste,  ' '  but  I  thought  too  much  of  my  neck  to 
refuse  her. ' '  He  called  her  out,  and  she  came  crawling 
obediently  and  stood  before  us,  in  a  single  calico  chemise,  the 
first  garment  she  had  ever  known.  1 '  Look  at  her — she 's  got 
buJcua  from  head  to  foot ! ' '  And  even  as  he  spoke,  her  hands 
were  busy  scratching  the  dandruffy,  ringwormy  skin.  Cap- 
tain Jansen  was  heading  for  a  Mission  as  soon  as  he  finished 
his  recruiting.  "  It 's  all  I  can  do, ' '  he  said.  "  If  I  leave  her 
anywhere  else,  ten  to  one  she'd  be  kai-kai 'd  before  I'm  out 


388  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

of  sight. — The  fleshy  parts  of  a  woman's  forearm  and  leg  are 
the  favourite  feast-bits.  .  .  .  But  they  wouldn't  get  so  much 
off  her, ' '  he  concluded,  looking  at  the  slim,  scared  being. 

It  was  insufferably  hot  in  our  bunks,  which  were  high,  with 
the  heated  ceiling  close.  The  deck  was  packed  with  blacks, 
who,  when  they  were  not  sleeping  in  their  brutish,  restless, 
muttering  way,  chattered  incessantly  in  staccato  high  eunuch- 
voices,  a  polyglot  of  native  dialects  and  beche  de  mer,  with 
frequent  interpolations  of  "My  word!"  "Fella,"  "You 
gammon  along  me,"  "No  fear!"  that  were  comically  start- 
ling. Jack  laughed  right  out  when  one  bush-boy,  uncon- 
genial to  the  sea,  who  had  been  moaning  in  incipient  nausea, 
exclaimed:  "Belly  belong  me  walk  about  too  much!" 
Whereupon  another  falsetto  piped  up  in  sympathy,  "Belly 
belong  me  sing  out ! ' '  Then  would  come  sudden  breaks  into 
light,  short  child-laughter. 

What  could  their  meagre  infantile  brains  find  to  talk  about 
so  interminably?  A  miserable  black  wild-dog  puppy  from 
the  Ysabel  bush,  termed  by  Jansen  "The  Wandering 
Sausage,"  hunting  for  human  kindness  and  nursing,  wailed 
and  yapped  at  the  thoughtless  pinches  and  pushes  and  slaps 
with  which  it  was  bandied  about.  Peggy,  a  blue-blooded 
Irish  terrier  of  five  tender  but  dauntless  months,  from  Sven- 
son's  famous  breed  on  Ysabel,  and  the  pride  of  Jansen 's  hopes 
for  a  "nigger  chaser,"  stirred  up  added  ructions  by  bullying 
the  weanling  baby-dog.  There  was  not  a  single  minute  of 
silence  on  the  Minota  that  long,  sweltering  night.  And  yet 
it  was  wonderful  to  lie  there,  pistols  and  extra  cartridges 
under  our  pillows,  a  rifle  apiece  alongside  on  the  couch, 
realising  the  slashing  riskiness  of  the  situation,  nothing  be- 
tween us  and  danger  except  our  wardfulness  and  our  lucky 
stars. 

When  I  came  on  deck,  the  "boys"  were  making  their 
toilettes  with  native  combs  and  cheap  new  trade  mirrors,  to 
an  intermittent  accompaniment  of  short  bells,  which  struck 
whenever  certain  small  trade  chests  were  opened  or  shut. 
The  "bokkis  (box)  belong  bell"  (a  trade-box  with  a  bell 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  389 

that  rings  when  the  lid  is  raised  or  lowered)  is  the  pride  and 
ambition  of  the  plantation  hand,  and  I  can  imagine  is  one  of 
the  fruitful  causes  of  the  scant  remains  of  wages  at  the  final 
expenditure  when  the  working  term  is  up.  They  were  gab- 
bling and  giggling  like  a  lot  of  girls — and  singing  in  their 
emasculated  voices,  monotonous,  but  not  unmusical,  intervals. 

One  person  who  affords  great  amusement  is  the  mate  of 
the  Minota.  He  is  a  good-looking  German,  with  large  brown 
eyes,  straight  nose,  and  small  mouth ;  but  he  has  a  loose-seated 
way  of  wearing  his  baggy  trousers  that  gives  him  a  ludi- 
crously Dutch  aspect. 

Our  clean,  swift  hull  had  made  good  time  in  the  smooth 
water,  helped  by  a  favouring  tide,  and  Malaita  was  clearer 
in  the  opal-misty  morning  than  was  Guadalcanal  astern. 
Nakata,  industrious  and  full  of  quinine,  was  a  picture  of 
intentional  cheer,  I  think  partly  to  offset  his  weak  brother 
Wada  who,  cooking  for  us  four  in  the  tiny  open  deck-galley, 
was  reduced  to  just  simply  a  white-livered  sea-cook.  It  was 
shocking  to  see  a  Japanese  so  go  to  pieces.  There  was  no 
"buck  up"  in  him.  But  then  Wada,  despite  his  manifold 
virtues  theretofore,  always  was  suggestive  of  an  Indian  in  his 
appearance. 

It  commenced  to  look  very  much  like  business  when  the 
boat's  crew  went  about  rigging  a  significant  double  line 
fence  of  barbed  wire  above  the  yacht's  six-inch  rail,  the  only 
break  being  at  the  narrow  gangway,  which  would  be  espe- 
cially guarded  in  port. 

Jack  and  I  worked  all  morning  in  the  stateroom.  The 
captain,  who  had  been  led  into  a  relation  of  certain  tragic 
passages  in  his  life  (he  had  fled  home  and  stepmother  at 
eleven)  threw  himself  down  in  the  cabin  and  slept — ''Just 
to  forget,  good  folk — that's  what  I  am  always  trying  to  do." 
He  came  from  New  York  State,  of  Knickerbocker  stock,  and 
is  unconsciously  Rembrandtesque  in  every  posture  of  his 
fine  body  and  blond  Dutch  face,  pale-blue  dreaming  eyes,  and 
an  invariable  small  felt  hat  over  an  ear. 

Our  first  anchorage  was  to  be  at  Su'u,  on  southwest  Malaita. 


390  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

The  chart  presented  an  unbroken  line ;  but  as  we  neared  in 
the  late  afternoon,  a  small  deep  indentation  pricked  into  the 
coast.  The  fifteen  Su'u  boys  were  eager  children,  scan- 
ning the  dim  land,  never  still  a  moment  in  their  excite- 
ment, bodies  or  limbs  or  tongues,  chattering  like  cockatoos 
and  wildly  gesticulating  as  they  recognised  landmarks  at 
close  range.  And  I  know  I  shall  never  again  hear  the  bell  of 
a  cash-register  without  being  transported  to  the  Minota's 
savage-cluttered  deck,  for  every  child-man  incessantly  hunted 
for  the  ghost  of  an  excuse  to  keep  opening  his  melodious 
bokkis  belong  bell. 

The  Rembrandt  skipper  awoke  his  own  care-free,  happy- 
go-lucky  self,  passing  in  turn  into  an  alert  navigator,  his 
light-blue  eyes  roving  keenly  about  as  ' '  Johnny, ' '  the  pick  of 
the  boat  crew,  sounded  along  inshore.  The  bay  might  have 
been  absolutely  uninhabited  for  aught  we  could  detect  of 
man  or  evidence  of  man.  Not  even  the  whistle  of  a  "  watch- 
bird"  broke  the  primeval  stillness  of  jungle  that  grew  to  the 
water — a  warning  that  often  acquaints  the  visitor  of  prowl- 
ers ashore.  "You  wouldn't  dream  that  a  hundred  pairs  of 
eyes  or  so  were  looking  right  at  us  now,  would  you?"  the 
captain  said.  "They're  not  missing  an  eye-winker — I  know 
them, ' '  he  finished  grimly. 

"If  I  had  a  kicker,  we'd  go  in  closer,"  he  remarked  when 
the  anchor  rumbled  down.  "But  you  can't  get  out  quick 
enough  without  it,  if  you  have  to. " 

The  landing  of  the  fifteen  Su'us  on  a  clear  stretch  of  beach 
opposite  the  jungly  side  of  the  harbour  was  accomplished 
before  dark  without  event  other  than  the  appearance  of  two 
or  three  of  their  people  to  greet  them.  The  mate  went  in  the 
boat,  armed  with  Snider  rifle  and  a  formidable  six-shooter, 
Johnny  at  the  steering  sweep,  and  the  boat's  crew  rowing 
each  with  a  Snider  or  a  Lee-Enfield  beside  him  on  the  thwart. 
Captain  Jansen,  gun  ready  for  prompt  assistance,  sensed  our 
tense  interest,  and  posted  us  on  the  manoeuvre.  When  a  re- 
cruiting boat  nears  shore,  it  is  turned  around  and  the  landing 
effected  stern-first,  the  crew  resting  on  their  oars,  prepared  to 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  391 

pull  away  at  an  instant's  order  if  necessary.  Thus,  also, 
every  man  faces  the  enemy,  and  the  blacks  are  more  afraid  of 
hostile  tribes  than  are  their  white  masters.  Many  a  "  pier- 
head" recruit,  fleeing  from  his  own  village,  is  gathered  in 
under  fire.  We  saw  the  boys  climb  ashore,  and  the  mate  and 
Johnny  talk  with  the  strangers;  then  the  boat  rowed  safely 
back,  the  mate  reporting  that  we  would  get  no  recruits 
this  trip,  and  that  the  men  he  talked  with  were  ominous  with 
trouble  brewing  ashore. 

The  Minota's  boat  works  under  small  security,  for  the 
size  of  the  yacht  precludes  carrying  the  otherwise  invariable 
"covering-boat"  that  hovers,  well  armed,  about  the  boat 
that  lands  and  takes  off  recruits.  ' '  Captain  Jansen  certainly 
has  his  nerve  with  him, ' '  Jack  commented  admiringly  to  me, 
after  that  gentleman  had  explained  the  custom. 

After  supper,  a  merry  repast  in  which  we  made  shift  with 
two  knives  (" knife-fees"),  two  spoons  and  one  fork  (the 
Langa-Langa  loot  had  not  yet  been  replaced  from  Aus- 
tralia), Jansen  fished  up  a  tiny  Edison  phonograph,  and  we 
lay  around  aft  on  deck,  listening  blissfully  to  cracked  and 
much  worn  records  of  "Narcissus,"  "Pirates  of  Penzance," 
"Marching  Through  Georgia,"  and  "Red  Wing,"  over  and 
over,  meanwhile  teasing  and  fondling  by  turns  the  ubiquitous 
yellow-velvet  Peggy,  who  never  rested  night  or  day  unless 
from  sheer  inability  to  keep  going.  She  picked  a  scrap  with 
as  much  abandon  as  she  adorably  and  stormily  apologised 
when  brought  to  time  for  her  sharp  needles  of  teeth,  and 
when  nothing  else  was  doing  for  the  moment,  went  stalking 
her  low-born  victim,  the  wild-puppy.  Wada  lay  at  a  dis- 
tance, with  drawn  face  and  hopeless  eyes,  while  Nakata  rattled 
on  affably  with  the  blacks,  doubtless  going  them  one  better  in 
their  outrageous  English.  Their  shining  black  and  white 
eyeballs,  and  the  sweet  face  of  the  sick  little  Mary  at  the 
companionway  in  the  lantern  flicker,  lent  all  the  local  glamour 
that  one  could  ask.  We  felt  the  jab  of  our  pistols  at  our 
belts  when  we  turned  on  deck,  and  Jack  whispered,  ' l  Quick, 
Mate!  Where  are  you?"  as  "Red  Wing"  commenced  again 


392  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

and  the  captain  rolled  over  to  peer  between  the  barbed-wire 
strands  toward  a  slight  noise  off-shore.  It  was  a  small  canoe, 
and  it  came  alongside  where  Johnny  stood  with  his  rifle  at 
the  gangway.  A  solitary  naked  youth  brought  word  from 
the  "friendly"  chief  Ishikola,  that  no  white  man  must  step 
ashore  on  the  morrow.  Jansen  pondered  as  to  the  friendli- 
ness of  this  warning — ' '  Or  is  he  cuddling  some  crafty  scheme 
of  his  own  ? ' '  Suspicious  lights  could  be  seen  all  that  night, 
blinking  among  the  trees,  trending  toward  Ishikola  's  vil- 
lage— for  Jansen  did  not  permit  himself  to  sleep  under  such 
suspicious  circumstances.  ' '  That 's  what  my  nap  was  for  this 
forenoon,"  he  reminded  us. 

I  slept  heavily  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  opened  my  door 
just  in  time  to  see  Peggy  take  a  short-cut  into  the  cabin  from 
the  deck — an  unbroken  fall  of  eight  feet — and  lie  still  where 
she  landed  on  her  tender  spine.  Captain  Jansen  dropped  his 
razor  and  sprang  for  her,  gentle  as  any  woman,  and  felt  her 
over  for  a  broken  back.  It  was  five  minutes  before  she 
showed  signs  of  coming  to,  and  we  were  all  more  affected 
than  we  cared  to  talk  about  until  we  made  sure  she  was 
sound. 

The  lovely  sun-dyed  mists  in  wood  and  hill  thickened  into 
a  drizzle.  A  couple  of  handsome  high-ended  canoes  paddled 
alongside  from  hidden  places  in  the  mangroves,  and  in  one  of 
them  Johnny's  sharp  eyes  discovered  a  rifle.  When  the 
naked  rascals  fell  to  the  fact  that  the  captain  was  ' '  on, ' '  they 
pushed  quickly  away  from  the  yacht  and  did  not  return. 
Jansen  said  three  of  them  were  the  bad  ' '  bush ' '  people,  down 
from  the  heights  to  take  the  least  advantage  that  might  open 
up.  They  were  strong-bodied,  fit  warriors,  and  their  punc- 
tured and  decorated  crafty-sullen  visages  were  the  beau  ideal 
of  one 's  fondest  dreams  of  howling  cannibals.  ' '  The  paddlers 
are  salt-water,"  Jansen  called  our  attention,  " — praise  the 
Lord  the  bush  boys  can't  swim.  A  bunch  of  good  swimmers 
can  steal  upon  a  vessel  and  board  her  quicker  than  you  can 
drop  them  off.  A  stick  of  dynamite  is  the  only  thing  that  will 
scatter  them.  You  don 't  have  to  light  it,  and  even  if  you  did, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  393 

there  wouldn't  be  a  nigger  in  sight  when  it  went  off — they're 
that  slick." 

A  smudgy  smoke  rose  from  the  beach,  and  our  boat  went 
over,  this  being  a  sign  of  recruits.  With  the  glasses  we  could 
make  out  three  naked  men  and  a  pickaninny,  and  a  cluster 
of  spears  leaning  against  a  tree.  Our  men  were  especially 
wary,  for  the  very  air  breathed  treachery.  Instead  of  re- 
cruits, when  they  backed  up  to  the  beach,  old  chief  Ishikola 
himself  embarked,  and  paid  us  a  visit.  Glancing  up  the 
gangway,  he  spied  me  fella  white  Mary,  and  immediately 
shrank  into  himself  until  a  fathom  of  white  "calico"  was 
passed  down.  Arrayed  in  this  modest  drapery,  he  limped 
aboard,  and  after  greeting  Captain  Jansen,  turned  to  us 
strangers : 

"My  word!  you  fella  come  long  way  too  much  big  sea." 

Once  a  fine-bodied  man,  a  downward  deep  thrust  of  spear 
in  the  left  hip  had  rendered  him  badly  crouched  on  that  side. 
The  dirt-encrusted  old  knave,  squatting  on  deck  and  inform- 
ing the  captain  that  big  fella  too  much  bad  business  was 
brewing  for  us  from  the  bushmen  ashore  if  we  gave  the  slight- 
est loophole  of  carelessness,  flirted  brazenly  with  the  white 
fella  Mary  he  too  good.  He  played  deliberate  peek-a-boo 
from  behind  the  captain,  leered  like  a  good  fella  old  devil, 
grimaced,  and  even  winked  in  true  white  masher  fashion. 
Captain  Jansen,  greatly  diverted,  and  seeing  the  chief  some- 
what puzzled  by  my  bloomers  (he  had  seen  duck-skirted  mis- 
sionaries), soberly  assured  him: 

"This  fella  no  fella  Mary,  Ishikola;  he  fella  boy — my 
word!" 

Ishikola 's  jaw  fell,  and  he  thrust  a  blank  face  far  out  to 
study  the  phenomenon.  Never  did  woman  receive  a  more 
searching  look-over,  up  and  down  and  back  again.  I  had  to 
remember  who  and  what  he  was  in  order  not  to  feel  em- 
barrassed. Slowly  the  wrinkle-cracked  wooden  face  lighted 
up,  and  the  jaw  closed  only  to  open  in  a  grin  that  matched 
the  laugh  in  his  wicked  smoky-black  eyes,  as  he  emphatically 
enunciated : 


394  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

"Nofe-ah!" 

He  joined  in  our  laugh ;  but  his  dignity  was  wounded,  and 
he  paid  little  further  attention  to  me. 

Our  skipper  embraced  the  occasion  to  try  out  the  firearms, 
and  we  made  the  tight  little  bight  reverberate.  After  which, 
Captain  Jansen  coolly  invited  us  to  go  close  in  to  the  man- 
groves and  dynamite  fish  for  supper.  The  sheer  impudence 
of  it  appealed.  The  debonaire  brass  of  this  south-sea  sailor- 
adventurer  is  an  amaze. 

We  went.  Bristling  with  rifles,  every  man  of  us  (!)  with 
a  pistol  in  his  belt,  we  approached  to  within  less  than  thirty 
feet  of  a  fallen  tree  out  jutting  from  that  soundless,  moveless 
wall  of  mangroves,  reversed  the  boat,  and  the  charge  was 
tossed  into  the  water.  And  simultaneously  with  the  explo- 
sion, like  screen  pictures  on  a  prepared  scene,  there  appeared 
a  score  of  stark  naked  cannibals,  armed  to  the  eyebrows  with 
every  fighting  device  known  to  savage  man,  while  one,  who 
had  leaped  to  the  end  of  the  fallen  tree,  held  his  rifle  on  us. 
And  he  and  Johnny,  who  had  as  instantly  sprung  to  position, 
stood  muzzle  toward  muzzle.  Absolute  silence,  absolute  im- 
mobility, save  for  shifting  eyeballs — but  the  eyeballs  of  the 
two  with  guns  never  wavered  for  a  long  minute.  Then  the 
savage  on  the  fallen  limb  slowly,  slowly  lowered  his  barrel, 
and  his  eyes  fell  as  he  smiled  sheepishly.  The  anti-climax, 
when  the  whole  kit  of  warriors  laid  down  their  weapons  and 
dived  with  our  boys  at  Captain  Jansen 's  invitation  to  help 
themselves  to  the  white-bellied  litter  of  floating  fish,  was 
positively  painful.  The  snap  of  the  string  of  curious  intent- 
ness  made  me  almost  cry  when  I  began  to  laugh  at  the  comedy. 
And  it  was  Captain  Jansen 's  pure,  insolent  bravado,  based 
on  his  knowledge  of  primitive  psychology,  that  made  the 
prank  possible.  He  knew  nothing  would  happen;  and  yet, 
one  false  move  ...  he  acknowledges  this  himself. 

"I  don't  know  a  white  man  who  has  gone  ashore  in  here 
of  late  years.     Things  have  changed  with  the  recruiting,  and 
with  the  return  of  the  blacks  from  'All-white  Australia/  ' 
he  told  us.    ' '  Count  Festetics  and  his  American  wife  landed 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  395 

from  their  yacht,  but  that  must  have  been  ten  or  twelve  years 
back.  They  walked  some  distance  in,  and  the  only  living 
things  they  came  across  were  three  or  four  Marys,  with  their 
bones  broken,  staked  to  their  necks  in  running  water,  be- 
ing made  tender  for  the  roasting." 

.  .  .  And  all  the  time  "Just  Because  You  Made  Those 
Goo-goo  Eyes"  and  other  equally  apposite  selections  were 
bawling  across  the  water  from  the  Minota,  where  the  pensive 
German  mate,  Snider  beside  him,  handy  if  needful,  beguiled 
the  hour  away. 

The  following  morning, 

August  11,  1908. 

We  got  away  from  Su'u  at  nine  in  a  warm  drizzle.  In 
lieu  of  either  wind  or  " kicker,"  the  sweeps  had  to  be  em- 
ployed, for,  once  the  anchor  is  broken  out,  no  chance  must  be 
taken  of  going  aground  in  a  hostile  neighbourhood.  I  could 
see  the  crew,  as  well  as  the  remaining  return  boys,  hold  their 
breaths  while  they  measured  the  distance  between  the  vessel 
and  any  possible  entanglement.  They  all  know  what  it 
means  to  be  on  the  wrong  side  of  fate  in  such  misadventure. 

Our  course  was  northwest,  along  the  coast  to  Langa  Langa, 
where  the  Minota  and  her  problematically  faithful  crew 
were  to  stop  for  the  first  time  since  Mackenzie's  murder. 
The  wind  freshened  and  drove  the  rain  away,  the  mate 
brought  up  a  long  cushion,  and  I  lay,  with  a  hot  headache, 
watching  through  our  barbed  railing  the  slow  unfolding  of 
Malaita,  hill  and  vale,  and  finally  the  green  crown  of  Mt. 
Kolorat,  over  four  thousand  feet  high.  No  sooner  was  the 
grand  panorama  fairly  clear,  than  we  began  to  notice  waver- 
ing pillars  of  smoke  that  steadily  increased  in  numbers  scat- 
tered all  through  the  bush  region  to  the  green  summits. 

Our  blithe  buccaneer  of  a  skipper  stood  with  legs  apart, 
carelessly  intent,  infinitely  graceful,  and  relishing  grapples 
with  danger  as  the  food  of  life,  I  do  believe. 

" Signal  fires,"  he  indicated  to  us.  "Not  a  mother's  son 
on  this  side  Malaita  but  knows  this  ship  and  is  watching  every 


396  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

move  toward  Langa  Langa.  I'll  bet  they're  laying  wagers 
on  whether  she'll  dare  to  go  into  Langa  Langa  after  the 
Mackenzie  fracas. ' ' 

The  wind  blew  up  a  small  tempest  by  noon,  and  we  did  not 
fancy  lunching  below ;  so  we  backed  up  against  the  skylight 
and  managed  our  plates  with  one  hand  while  we  hung  on  with 
the  other  in  the  rolls.  Johnny,  at  the  wheel,  more  appre- 
hensive than  efficient,  demonstrated  himself  no  artist  at  easing 
over  the  big  seas ;  and  the  biggest  of  three  swept  our  dinner 
into  the  buried  lee  scuppers,  along  with  my  parasol  and 
everything  else  portable  on  deck,  and  dipped  several  yards  of 
the  spanker  canvas.  The  captain  fetched  up  in  a  swashing 
entanglement  of  things  against  the  barbed  wire,  and  extri- 
cated himself  with  most  picturesque  language  as  the  vessel 
righted,  and  a  gallant  apology  to  "the  Missis." 

' '  Another  thing  you  can 't  teach  the  best  nigger  in  the  Solo- 
mons, ' '  he  chuckled  ruefully,  after  dodging  a  skating  chest  on 
the  back  wash,  and  contemplating  his  torn  singlet,  * '  is  how  to 
steer.  They  go  to  pieces  when  the  least  strain  is  put  on  their 
judgment.  I'd  trust  Johnny  anywhere  but  at  the  wheel — 
and  in  a  fight  against  his  own  people.  You  can't  depend  on 
any  one  of  them  for  that — strange  to  say,  not  even  when 
they've  good  reason  not  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  their  own 
village. ' ' 

Here  Peggy,  who  had  been  moping  aimlessly  all  morning, 
appeared  wearily  at  the  lurching  companionway,  gazing  ap- 
pealingly  out  of  flour-rimmed  topaz  eyes,  her  entire  person  a 
shapeless  ruin  of  white  flour. 

1  ( My  word !  She 's  been  sleeping  in  the  flour  barrel ! ' '  the 
mate  cried,  reaching  for  her.  But  the  next  lurch  was  too 
quick  for  him,  and  he  and  Peggy  rolled  down  the  steps  to- 
gether into  an  avalanche  of  sweet  potatoes  that  had  got  loose 
below.  The  next  time  I  descended,  I  found  that  the  two  big 
drawers  under  my  bunk  were  opening  and  shutting  with  the 
rolls,  and  it  was  more  funny  than  scary  to  discover  that  they 
were  filled  with  dynamite,  detonators,  and  ammunition. 

We  made  a  five  hours'  run  from  Su'u  to  Langa  Langa,  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  397 

there  saw  our  first  reef  villages.  I  had  nearly  forgotten  what 
little  I  had  read  of  them,  and  they  impinged  on  my  willing 
imagination  with  the  charm  and  surprise  of  a  dream  come 
true.  Who  in  God's  white  world  ever  heard  of  this  great 
island  of  Mala,  garlanded  with  palm-plumed  little  Venices, 
tiny  sea  cities  builded  upon  outlying  coral  by  the  weaker 
brothers  of  the  bush  who  long  ago  were  driven  beyond  the 
beaches  of  their  own  land  ?  Very  curious  and  beautiful  are 
these  snug  strongholds  against  man  and  nature,  close-walled 
with  firm  masonry  of  coral  blocks  to  resist  the  smashing  sea, 
the  straight  lines  of  walls  broken  by  thatched  village  roofs 
and  the  graceful  bendings  and  sketchy  angles  of  cocoanut 
palms.  The  openings  for  canoe  landings  are  narrow  and 
rough  and  steep,  as  if  cannon  had  tumbled  in  a  thick  section 
of  wall,  the  sides  waving  with  ferns. 

To  such  an  outland  citadel  we  were  bound,  Langa  Langa. 
We  made  our  way  around  a  mess  of  reef  into  a  passage  the 
outer  side  of  which  was  the  reef  village,  and  anchored  between 
it  and  the  near-by  mainland.  As  we  entered  the  passage,  a 
canoe  came  out,  and  an  excited  salt-water  native  informed  us 
of  the  not  surprising  coincidence  that  the  Cambrian  had  just 
steamed  out  (Captain  Lewes  again!),  and  that  her  mission 
had  been  to  locate  the  murderers  of  the  Minota's  master. 
We  gathered  that  the  officers  with  their  men  had  marched 
into  the  bush  a  short  distance,  and,  the  criminals  not  being 
forthcoming,  burned  five  suspected  villages,  and  killed  a  few 
pigs,  leaving  with  the  ultimatum  that  if  the  men  were  not 
delivered  up  at  the  stated  next  visitation  of  the  Cambrian, 
worse  things  would  follow.  Immediately  the  innocent  burned 
villagers  had  pitched  into  battle  with  the  guilty,  and  "hell 
he  pop"  was  the  order  of  the  day  up  bush.  Captain  Jansen 
left  no  item  of  this  intelligence  dark  to  his  crew,  who,  if  they 
had  had  any  notion  of  collusion  with  the  shore,  now  could  see 
that  the  Minota  was  fairly  tambo  for  the  time  being. 

Fairy  shallops,  with  great  cocoanut  fronds  for  sails,  came 
skimming  from  every  direction  across  the  lagoon,  which  was 
flat  as  a  mosaic  floor  of  lapis  lazuli,  turquoise,  and  jade. 


398  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

They  clustered  about  us  a  dozen  deep,  the  natives,  mostly 
salt-water,  cackling  subduedly  about  the  Minota,  and  I 
could  catch  a  bit  of  hastily  concealed  pantomime  now  and 
again,  that  showed  they  were  recalling  the  tomahawking  of 
her  last  big  fella  marster  belong  white  man.  Next  to  the 
ship,  I  seemed  to  be  the  attraction,  and  the  paddlers  stood  up 
to  get  a  look  at  me.  Only  one  did  Captain  Jansen  allow  on 
board,  a  chief  called  " Billy,"  who  was  glibly  effusive,  and 
confidential  about  current  affairs.  When  I  say  he  was  al- 
lowed on  board,  I  must  qualify.  No  sooner  had  he  stepped 
on  deck  and  started  forward,  than  the  captain  halted  him 
with  a  peremptory  but  kindly : 

"Hey!  You!  Billy — you  better  drain  overboard,  my 
word!" 

And  then  we  saw  that  he  had  an  enormous  and  very  active 
ulcer  on  his  buttock.  He  begged  for  medicines  and  applied 
them,  over  the  edge  of  the  rail,  while  he  recounted  all  he 
knew  of  matters  ashore. 

Billy  was  much  taken  with  the  chance  to  talk  with  a  white 
Mary,  having  met  some  of  the  missionary  women,  and  was 
very  gallant  despite  his  disadvantageous  posture  for  social 
amenities.  Thus  did  he  bid  me  to  his  village : 

"You  come  along  island  belong  me,  to-morrow,  Mary — 
Missis  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  Billy,  I  come,  sure." 

"You  no  gammon  along  me?"  he  quizzed.  And,  being 
reassured,  he  smiled  fatly.  ' '  My  word !  You  bring  me  fella 
wife  soma  tobacco  ? "  in  a  wheedling  tone. 

"All  right,"  I  promised,  "I  bring  tobacco  wife  belong 
you. — But  what  present  you  big  fella  chief  bring  me,  Billy  ? ' ' 

Billy  got  around  it  nicely: 

"Me  fella  no  have  present  for  Mary — Missis,"  he  ex- 
plained. "S'pose  you  fella  man,  me  give  him  fella  present 
one  spear  belong  me." 

And  he  made  good,  presenting  Jack  next  day  with  a  deadly 
poison-tipped  spear  that  I  could  not  bind  up  quick  enough 
for  fear  we  might  abrade  ourselves  on  it. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  399 

Fancy  the  German  planters  in  the  Archipelago,  who  have 
never  learned  English,  essaying  beche  de  mer.  It  is  said  to 
be  one  of  the  funniest  things  imaginable. 

It  was  a  treat  to  watch  Jansen.  Apparently  nonchalant 
and  unobservant,  he  had  an  almost  unbelievable  awareness 
of  everything  going  on.  "Hi!  Whiskers!  Get  away  from 
that  rail ! "  he  would  rap  out,  three  quarters  back  toward  the 
inquisitive  climber.  Aboard  and  ashore,  he  avoided  risking 
his  back  near  a  "nigger,"  and  cautioned  us  likewise.  With 
the  chiefs  he  was  all  easy  affability,  breaking  off  to  give  a 
command,  or  order  some  one  off,  in  an  unequivocal,  even  tone 
that  even  a  raw  savage,  unless  he  were  a  born  idiot,  could  not 
misunderstand. 

A  few  fowls  were  offered,  with  the  question:  "You  fella 
want  kokoroko  belong  me?"  and  became  ours  for  stick  to- 
bacco ;  also  a  garfish  or  two,  long-nosed  fish  with  teeth,  that 
go  human  aristocracy  one  better,  for  their  very  bones  are 
blue!  And  glad  we  were  for  this  fresh  addition  to  a  very 
much  tinned  larder.  Sometimes  I  hoped  I'd  never  see  a  tin 
again. 

The  canoe  people  had  magnificent  brown  muscled  shoul- 
ders, round-sloping  down  the  arms,  and  splendid  torsos; 
but  when  they  stood  erect,  their  legs  were  comic,  short  and 
bandied,  with  warped  and  weazened  calves.  The  reef 
dwellers  have  little  walking  to  develop  their  underpinnings. 

We  rowed  over  to  the  elongated  reef  city  and  looked  about, 
the  older  women,  unsightly,  dragged-out  hags,  skurrying  the 
young  girls  into  the  houses  as  we  approached.  We  saw  two 
or  three  who  were  comely,  but  the  clipped  heads,  as  usual, 
robbed  all  but  the  exceptions  of  their  looks.  They  were 
mostly  naked,  old  and  young,  and  the  heads  of  the  little  tots 
of  pickaninnies  were  shaved  all  but  a  bleached  tuft  atop, 
which  might  have  been  left  to  handle  them  with.  All  ages 
were  nose-ringed  and  bead-necklaced,  and  wore  an  endless 
choice  of  unlikely  objects  in  their  tortured  ears.  We  saw  a 
squatting  group  of  Marys  shaping  and  drilling  "  money  "- 
tiny  pierced  disks  of  shell  both  pink  and  white,  which  are 


400  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

strung  on  cocoanut  fibre.  A  fathom  of  the  pink  brings  a 
golden  sovereign. 

Of  course  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  these  earth-edge 
mortals  could  raise  any  produce  in  such  small  and  unfavour- 
able spaces.  They  must  depend  upon  fish  as  their  main 
staple.  The  bush  people,  on  the  other  hand,  desiring  fishy 
sustenance,  an  armed  truce  obtains  at  frequent  intervals, 
wherein  the  Marys  of  both  factions  hold  a  market  on  the 
open  beach,  under  guard  of  their  respective  lords,  and  trade 
vegetables,  fruits,  and  fowls,  for  sea  food.  One  large  fish 
brings  twenty  taro,  for  example.  Just  now,  with  the  condi- 
tions up  bush,  the  salt  water  folk  were  hungry  for  fruit,  and 
we  saw  grimy  little  pickaninnies  whimpering  for  their 
'  *  tucker. "  "  What  name  altogether  you  cry  along  tucker  ? ' ' 
Johnny  demanded  good-naturedly  of  one  disconsolate  kiddie. 

A  detached  portion  of  the  walled  town  was  reached  by  a 
bridging  tree-trunk;  and  here,  as  at  Port  Mary,  Jack  was 
able  to  crow,  for  even  this  white  fella  Mary  was  not  allowed 
to  profane  it  with  her  foot.  Jack  walked  across  with  the 
other  males,  joking  me  as  I  was  rowed  by  in  the  boat.  As  I 
stepped  ashore  blackness  spread  over  everything.  I  com- 
menced to  shake  uncontrollably,  and  called  to  the  others. 
''Fever,"  Jansen  pronounced  laconically,  and  I  was  taken 
back  to  the  Minota.  Followed  three  hours  of  racking  nerve 
breakdown  in  a  raging  fever,  during  which  Jack  turned  to 
nobly  with  blankets  and  hot-water  bottles  and  steaming 
drinks  brought  by  a  pitying  Nakata,  to  induce  the  sweat  that 
is  the  only  relief. 

"By  the  shivering  fits  which  chill  us, 
By  the  feverish  heats  which  grill  us, 
By  the  pains  acute  which  fill  us, 
By  the  aches  which  maul  and  mill  us — " 

I  thought  I  knew  all  of  it  by  the  time  I  had  been  sponged 
off — a  heavenly  process  that  marks  an  immortal  bliss  of 
easement.  Jack  allowed  himself  only  one  jibe — that  the 
fever  was  precipitated  by  shock  at  being  excluded  from  the 
bridge. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  401 

In  the  evening,  burned-out  and  weak,  but  happy,  I  was 
on  deck,  listening  to  "Narcissus"  and  "Red  Wing," 
cuddling  a  convalescent  Peggy,  watching  the  ebb  on  the 
black  reefs,  where  red  fires  glowed  in  the  villages.  Single 
silhouetted  canoes  with  their  gondola  ends,  glided  across  the 
lagoon  where  a  golden  moon  dropped  golden  pools  in  the 
night-purple  tide.  The  mountains  melted  in  soft  luminous- 
ness,  their  summits  frosted  with  light  clouds.  Never  in  all 
my  years  shall  I  hear  the  dear,  foolish 

".  .  .  moon's  shining  bright  on  pretty  Red  Wing, 
The  breeze  is  dying,  the  night  bird's  crying," 

without  a  tightening  of  the  heart. 


Thursday,  August  13,  1908. 

Captain  Jansen  had  by  now  accomplished  several  things 
that  brought  him  here,  such  as  recovering  a  spare  sail 
from  the  village  that  had  stolen  it  on  the  Minota's  last  visit, 
and  collecting  good  gold  from  Chief  Billy  for  two  deserters 
of  his  tribal  brothers  from  the  plantation.  As  there  was  no 
chance  of  gathering  any  recruits  from  the  troubled  bush 
region,  we  set  out  for  Malu,  on  the  north  side  of  the  island, 
to  land  the  last  of  the  homing  blacks  and  drum  up  a  new 
supply. 

Johnny,  losing  his  head  as  we  were  getting  under  way, 
jammed  the  wheel  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  nearly 
crammed  us  on  the  inshore  reef.  It  was  an  apprehensive 
moment,  even  Captain  Jansen  knitting  his  blond  brows  as  he 
watched  the  inches  finally  widen  between  the  boat  and  the 
milky-purple  menace  below  the  pale-green  water.  Even 
with  the  punitive  Cambrian  so  shortly  departed,  for  the 
Minota,  of  all  vessels,  to  hang  up  at  Langa  Langa,  might 
mean  a  concerted  rush  that  would  finish  us  all  in  smoke  and 
blood. 

We  wove  along  the  lagoon  made  by  the  tfuter  and  inner 
reefs,  picking  our  way  so  swiftly  among  prismatic  coral 


402  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

shallows  in  bright  green  water  to  the  guidance  of  a  man  at 
the  cross-trees,  that  the  near  coral  islets  and  low  lands  of 
the  mainland,  belted  with  mangroves,  produced  the  illusion 
of  shifting  in  an  opposite  direction  from  the  mountain  be- 
hind. The  low,  continuous  ivory-sanded  reef  to  seaward 
showed  the  kind  of  "land"  the  natives  have  built  upon,  and 
now  and  again  a  tiny  village  broke  the  line.  Beyond  the 
narrow  strip,  across  a  white-crested  indigo  sea,  to  the  west 
we  could  glimpse  Ysabel  Island,  showing  on  the  heaving 
horizon  in  a  string  of  isolated  hummocks. 

Four  miles  of  this  exquisite  traverse  brought  us  to  Auki, 
a  beautiful  walled  double-village  on  the  reef  off  a  bight  in 
the  mainland.  An  enormous  banyan  had  taken  root  in  Auki, 
and  overhung  the  wall.  Close  alongside,  as  in  a  moat,  a 
shell-garish  war  canoe  rocked.  We  almost  touched  the  mossy 
coral  wall  as  we  went  about  to  head-reach  out  a  narrow  pas- 
sage to  the  open  water.  We  could  smell  the  salt  deep-sea 
smell  distinctly  as  we  emerged  from  the  lagoon.  A  little 
later,  we  spied  a  schooner  anchored  off  shore,  and  Captain 
Jansen  recognised  it  as  the  Melanesian  Missionary  Society's 
Evangel.  They  have  a  mission  near  by,  and  one  at  Malu; 
but  not  a  trader  has  been  able  to  stick  on  Malaita. 

It  was  ten  at  night  when  we  came  to  anchor  at  the  extreme 
northwest  end  of  Malaita,  between  Cape  Astrolabe  and  the 
tiny  island  of  Bassakanna.  Here  Captain  Jansen  told  us 
he  had  once  been  becalmed  for  four  days,  the  tide  carrying 
him  back  and  forth  against  his  will.  And  here,  on  another 
occasion,  he  had  picked  up  the  survivors  of  the  Sewall  ship 
Rappahannock. 

The  Eugenie  was  a  short  distance  ahead,  and  she,  too,  went 
to  anchor  for  want  of  wind.  Captain  Keller  rowed  aboard 
for  a  "gam" — a  good  looking  fellow  of  but  twenty-two,  of 
German  descent,  who  seemed  very  young  to  be  in  command 
of  a  schooner  in  such  waters.  He  volunteered  that  he  had 
never  learned  navigation. 

And  all  this  day,  Jack  had  been  kind  enough  not  to  jeer 
at  me,  for,  at  last,  I  had  a  well-developed  Solomon  Island 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  403 

sore  just  abaft  my  left  outside  ankle-bone.  He  saturated 
it  with  corrosive  sublimate,  for  I  was  too  shattered  with  the 
left-over  of  my  fever  to  have  the  nerve  to  doctor  the  aching 
thing  myself.  But  I  tied  a  raffish  bow  in  the  bandage,  and 
Jack  said  that  even  in  my  rags  I  was  picturesque. 


August  14,  1908. 

With  the  aid  of  tide,  and  a  mere  zephyr,  with  steady  work- 
ing of  the  sweeps,  we  rounded  Astrolabe,  entered  Malu  Bay, 
and  landed  the  recruits — outdistancing  the  Eugenie,  which 
was  too  big  to  sweep.  The  missionary  at  Malu,  Mr.  J.  St. 
George  Caulfeild,  came  out,  rowed  by  his  mission  boys,  and 
told  us  the  natives  were  in  a  subdued  state,  as  the  Cambrian 
had  lately  paid  an  admonitory  visit.  We  were  in  turn  able 
to  give  him  the  news  of  the  Cambrian's  actions  at  Langa 
Langa.  He  congratulated  us  upon  getting  out  safely  from 
both  that  port  and  Su'u,  as  the  moral  effect  on  the  natives 
is  very  salutary  to  the  white  man  hereabout.  Any  new  dis- 
aster to  a  white  vessel  makes  them  bold,  he  explained.  Mr. 
Caulfeild  has  stuck  it  out  at  Malu  longer  than  any  other  mis- 
sionary. If  the  bushmen  didn't  get  him,  the  fever  did. 
He  either  died  here,  or  fled  to  Australia.  The  first  mis- 
sionary, in  the  early  nineties,  lived  only  five  months.  And 
Caulfeild  goes  about  entirely  unarmed,  with  the  gentle  belief 
that  his  faith,  combined  with  the  superstitious  awe  of  his 
fearlessness  that  obtains  among  the  people,  will  protect  him. 
He  even  dares  to  interfere  with  some  of  their  practices,  going 
so  far  as  to  try  to  prevent  contemplated  bloody  tragedies  that 
he  gets  wind  of.  He  came  here  with  a  deep-seated  prejudice 
against  taking  quinine  for  fever,  which  he  lived  up  to  for 
some  time;  but  he  confessed  that  he  had  come  to  it  finally. 
He  is  a  slenderly  built,  sandy-haired  man,  one  of  the  sweetest 
and  most  unaffectedly  righteous  souls  we  ever  knew.  On 
a  high  bluff,  reached  only  by  a  slippery  and  difficult  defile, 
so  narrow  and  so  beset  with  rock  and  root  that  one  man 
could  hold  it  against  a  thousand,  we  found  the  grass-plaited 


404  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

mission  church,  and  the  good  man's  tiny  abode  on  stilts,  with 
a  little  cookshed  near  by. 
It  was  not  until  the  next  day, 

August  15,  1908. 

A  whistle  was  heard  ashore  that  betokened  recruits.  We 
could  see  our  boat,  with  the  rowers  resting  on  their  oars, 
while  Johnny  talked  from  the  stern  to  the  beach.  Every 
time  a  recruit  stepped  into  the  boat,  a  yell  went  up  from  the 
boys  on  the  Minota.  The  new  boys  were  innocent  of  cover- 
ing, and  a  white  breech-clout  was  handed  to  each,  before 
he  came  overside,  awkward  and  shy  as  a  wild  animal.  The 
bewildered  and  scared  but  willing  captive  was  then  hurried 
into  the  cabin,  where  his  picturesque  name,  be  it  Kapu, 
or  Nati,  or  Gogoomy,  or  Mgava,  was  written  in  a  book,  and 
his  hand  guided  to  affix  a  cross  thereto.  The  deck  then  be- 
came his  quarters,  where  he  was  promptly  assimilated  by  the 
inquisitive  crew. 

Never  believe  that  the  untutored  heathen  has  good  teeth. 
He  hasn't.  His  teeth  decay  and  ache  and  become  unsightly, 
just  as  do  our  teeth,  only  we  have  the  means  of  arresting 
disease.  In  addition  to  these  ills,  often  brought  about  by 
lack  of  right  nutriment,  the  islespeople 's  custom  of  blacken- 
ing their  teeth,  before  referred  to,  renders  their  mouths 
hideous.  Only  from  Caulfeild  at  Malu  did  we  learn  the  true 
inwardness — abundantly  backed  by  Johnny,  and  Ugi,  Man- 
oumie,  and  Lalaperu,  other  stars  of  the  Minota's  crew — of 
the  process.  We  had  always  been  assured  by  the  planters 
that  the  discolouration  arose  from  lime-eating  and  chewing 
betel  nut.  It  seems  that  a  certain  mineral  found  in  land- 
slides and  erosions  of  the  earth,  is  worked  into  powder,  and 
put  indelibly  upon  the  teeth  when  young,  the  process  taking 
an  uncomfortable  twenty-four  hours  during  which  the 
patient  has  no  wink  of  sleep. 

Jack  and  I  absorbed  many  significant  items  of  Solomon 
life.  Jansen  mentioned  to  Caulfeild  the  murder  of  a  planter 
in  the  Group : 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  405 

" Which  murder  do  you  mean?"  mildly  inquired  the  gentle 
disciple  of  peace.  ".  .  .  Oh,  man,  that  was  a  month  ago. 
I  thought  maybe  you  were  referring  to  ...  or  ..."  And 
then  would  follow  the  curdling  details  of  one  or  more  out- 
rages that  had  been  committed  in  the  interim. 

"They're  careless — they  get  careless,  and  let  the  beggars 
get  behind  them,"  Jansen  would  complain.  "Mackenzie, 
poor  chap,  had  no  manner  of  business  to  be  alone  on  this 
boat  that  day,  or  any  day.  A  Mary  did  the  trick,  I  under- 
stand— a  nice  harmless  female  woman  peaceably  aboard  with 
three  or  four  men.  Mackenzie 'd  no  business  to  be  fooled." 

Caulfeild  told  with  a  shudder  how  a  chief  on  one  of  the 
islands  had  stalked  into  a  mission  dining-room  and  tossed  a 
white  trader's  freshly  severed  head  down  the  long  table — a 
head  that  had  once  talked  and  eaten  at  that  very  board. 
And  there  were  sanguinary  tales  of  the  reeking  bush,  such 
as  what  happened  at  one  place  on  Malaita,  where  two  hun- 
dred men  were  cut  up  by  their  enemies,  and  the  women 
forced  to  carry  the  decapitated  heads  down  to  the  beach, 
where  they  were  themselves  beheaded.  Jansen  had  already 
recounted  to  us  how,  five  months  previous,  thirteen  boys  ran 
away  in  a  stolen  whaleboat  from  Ysabel  plantation,  and  dur- 
ing their  voyage  to  Malaita  killed  a  Guadalcanal  boy,  and 
one  other,  who  were  with  them,  and  kept  the  heads  under  the 
sternsheets.  Jansen,  who  had  followed  in  the  Minota,  re- 
covered the  boat,  and  saw  the  butchery  mess,  which,  he  as- 
sured us,  was  very  "loud"  by  that  time.  All  these  months 
Chief  Billy  has  been  in  possession  of  the  mast,  boom,  and 
sail  of  this  very  boat,  but  Jansen  has  recovered  them  and  they 
are  snugly  stowed  below.  It  is  nothing  to  find  an  arm  or 
a  leg,  fresh  or  otherwise,  hanging  in  a  tree — ghastly  warning 
or  signal  of  one  tribe  or  faction  to  another. 

And  in  this  atmosphere  of  merciless  carnage,  Jack  and  I 
performed  our  regular  work,  read  books,  played  cards,  and 
taught  Nakata  English.  I  embroidered  on  fine  linen  in  odd 
moments,  and  nursed  the  drilling  hole  in  my  ankle,  feeling 
still  uncertain  and  rather  vague  from  the  fever.  Nakata 


406  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

was  our  joy  and  luxury,  helpful,  interested,  and  appreciative 
of  this  rare  opportunity  to  observe  the  fringe  of  the  earth. 
He  called  my  attention  to  the  beauty  of  the  woods  ashore, 
where  a  river  flowed  across  the  pink-tan  coral  sand  into  the 
sea,  and  especially  to  the  splendid  depth  of  blue  shadows 
among  the  enormous  trees. 

Sunday,  August  16,  1908. 

We  were  fortunate  enough  to  witness  a  big  "market"  on 
the  broad  beach  this  forenoon.  While  I  mingled  with  the 
women,  at  least  two  hundred  of  them,  Jack  guarded  me 
from  a  little  distance,  and  our  whaleboat  hovered  just  off 
shore  for  the  same  purpose.  I  could  glimpse  the  bush  men, 
with  their  Sniders,  spears,  and  arrows,  in  the  gloom  at  the 
edge  of  the  forest,  and  the  canoes  of  the  beach  people  pro- 
tected their  Marys  in  like  fashion.  The  majority  of  the 
women  were  not  large,  perfectly  naked,  except  for  a  string 
of  sennit,  and  went  about  their  exchange  of  comestibles  in 
business-like  fashion,  with  a  great  hubbub  of  dialects.  I 
was  less  than  a  nine  minutes '  marvel,  so  intent  were  they  on 
trade.  But  before  their  little  minds  tired  of  me,  they  felt 
me  over,  examined  my  pongee,  laughed  at  the  bandage-bow 
on  my  ankle,  and  one  old  mother,  all  kindly  pucker  of 
wrinkles,  looked  at  my  hands,  and  rubbed  her  calloused  ones 
against  them,  explaining,  in  unmistakable  pantomime,  that 
the  softness  of  mine  was  because  they  had  done  no  work. 

There  was  noticeable  lack  of  variety  in  the  food  stuffs. 
Dried  fish  of  half  a  dozen  kinds,  a  limited  choice  of  vege- 
tables and  a  few  fowls,  were  all  they  offered.  The  mission- 
ary told  us  that  there  is  sickness  because  the  people  have  too 
little  change. 

The  bush  women  are  physically  superior  to  the  beach 
Marys,  well  up  to  their  stalwart  warriors  in  size,  for  moun- 
tain climbing  has  developed  them  to  fine  proportions.  Some 
of  them  have  really  beautiful  bodies,  with  long,  strong  legs 
such  as  artists  paint  on  Greek  girls  playing  ball.  Their  only 
imperfection  seems  to  lie  in  the  unlovely,  shaven  heads. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  407 

I  had  been  conning  over  a  fascinating  plan  to  adopt  some 
attractive  pickaninny,  and  take  her  home  with  me.  Visions 
of  a  perfectly  trained  treasure  of  a  maid  lured  me  on  to 
inquire  of  Mr.  Caulfeild  if  such  a  scheme  would  be  possible. 
He  thought  ,it  would  be  easy  to  get  permission  from  the  Resi- 
dent Commissioner,  and  I  was  sure  I  had  found  exactly  the 
right  girl  at  the  mission — a  fine  looking  child  of  nine  or  so, 
with  intelligent  brown  eyes,  wide  apart,  pleasant  mouth  with 
good  teeth,  and  a  well-shaped  head  ringed  with  soft  brown 
curls.  Her  euphonious  cognomen  was  Fakamam,  and  I  had 
busied  my  brain  already  with  diminutives  coined  out  of  the 
unlikely  material.  However,  everything  was  settled  for  me, 
when  the  little  maid's  cannibal  aunties  and  uncles  up-bush 
(her  father  was  a  convict  in  Fiji,  and  her  mother's  head  had 
been  smoked)  took  a  hand,  and  refused  to  let  her  go,  claim- 
ing that  they  had  to  be  responsible  to  him  for  his  daughter. 
Nakata,  I  think,  was  more  relieved  than  was  Jack  at  the  out- 
come of  my  quest.  Nakata  was  appalled  into  bold  utterance : 

* '  Why,  Missis-n,  where  could  we  put  her  on  Snark  f  Your 
room  too  pickaninny  altogether,  and  oh!  Missis-n,  she  can't 
sleep  out  in  cabin — and  you  many  times  say  would  not  have 
even  little  dog  aboard  Snark  extra ! ' ' 

.  .  .  Later  in  the  day  we  sailed  out  of  Malu,  following  in 
an  easterly  direction  the  inward  curve  of  the  land,  to  a 
couple  of  reef  villages,  Sio  and  Suava,  where  the  natives  were 
so  frank  and  friendly  that  Jack  and  I  waxed  reminiscent  of 
Polynesia.  Their  gentleness  must  have  been  the  weakness 
that  led  them  to  flee  to  the  land's  end,  for  they  are  farther 
out  than  most  of  the  similar  settlements.  Quite  an  expanse 
of  navigable  shallow  lies  between  them  and  the  mainland. 

We  were  promptly  surrounded  with  a  bevy  of  canoes,  and, 
contrary  to  the  other  anchorages,  young  women  and  children 
flocked  out,  laughing  and  coquetting,  chirping  and  twittering 
with  excitement  over  me,  all  naked  as  the  day  they  first  saw 
the  light,  many  of  them  very  prettily  formed.  A  score  of  yel- 
low-headed kiddies  swarmed  over  our  sides,  and  were  not  re- 
pulsed, for  Jansen  knew  his  ground  here.  We  saw  some 


408  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

funny  ornaments  and  clothing.  A  young  chief,  Eiraba, 
wore  an  exceedingly  short  coat  patched  variously  as  a  crazy- 
quilt — and  nothing  else.  And  one  older  fellow,  otherwise 
naked,  was  decked  in  a  battered  derby  hat,  with  a  broken 
saucer  bumping  on  his  unclean  and  matted  chest. 
In  the  morning, 

August  17,  1908. 

Sinulia,  big  fella  marster  belong  Sio,  whose  grey  head  and 
rugged  features  were  startlingly  like  those  of  the  actor,  Louis 
James,  paid  us  a  call  and  invited  us  to  inspect  his  village. 
His  daughter,  Vavia,  sat  in  a  canoe  alongside,  making  mo- 
tions for  me  to  come  ashore — a  tawny-skinned,  beautifully 
formed  girl,  apparently  about  nineteen,  with  hazel  eyes  and 
light  soft  curling  hair,  bleached,  of  course.  As  we  entered 
the  village,  up  the  mossy,  ferny  break  in  the  deep  masonry, 
the  golden  princess  Vavia  took  possession  of  me,  while  Jack 
and  the  captain  were  entertained  in  her  father's  house,  into 
which  no  female  might  trespass.  In  fact,  while  the  old  man 
had  been  most  affable  to  me,  and  liked  to  talk  with  me,  he 
had  himself  made  clear  that  he  was  tambo  from  the  touch  of 
any  Mary,  and  I  was  therefore  deprived  of  the  dubious  boon 
of  shaking  his  dirty  old  hand. 

It  had  begun  to  drizzle,  and  Vavia  hovered  me  in  under 
the  long  eaves  of  a  house,  where,  pressed  from  all  sides  by 
her  nude  maidens,  I  was  subjected  to  the  most  searching 
examination  I  had  yet  encountered,  Vavia  putting  up  my 
sleeves  to  the  shoulder,  and  caressing  my  flesh  with  her 
small  hands,  making  little  velvety  cries  and  moans  over 
the  white  surface  and  texture,  and  sniffing  the  length  of 
arm  as  daintily  as  a  child  scenting  the  perfume  of  a  flower. 
At  this  extremely  close  range  I  was  shocked  to  find  that  the 
secret  of  her  gold-tan  hue  was  plain  and  simple  bukua,  which 
had  ravaged  the  entire  brown  cuticle,  and  left  her  an  even 
shade  that  matched  her  bleached  hair  and  yellow  eyes.  Con- 
sidering the  tint  of  the  latter,  however,  I  judged  she  must 
originally  have  been  one  of  the  lighter  tones  of  the  countless 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  409 

variations  of  black  and  brown  that  the  Solomon  Island 
''blacks"  sport.  I  was  rather  shy  of  her  contiguity,  this 
warm  and  sticky-wet  day ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  passed  the 
dandruffy  stage,  and  I  was  helpless  anyway,  unless  I  gave 
them  all  hurt  by  withdrawing.  So  I  yielded  myself  to  the 
experience  of  being  adored  by  the  little  naked  ladies  of 
Melanesia,  who  were  lavishly  sweet  in  their  attentions.  And 
they  bore  such  charming  names — Mahua  and  Lurilna,  Rarita, 
Ema,  Masema,  Heura,  and  Kassua,  and  a  dozen  others  as 
musical.  They  had  seen  the  missionary  women,  so  I  was  not 
an  unmitigated  curiosity.  Vavia  finally,  by  patient  reiter- 
ation of  signs  and  sounds,  got  me  to  comprehend  that  she 
wanted  me  to  sing.  I  hummed  a  familiar  hymn,  thinking 
that  would  most  probably  be  what  she  had  heard.  She  laid 
her  face  near  mine,  and,  fluttering  her  small  hands,  followed 
me  note  for  note,  in  a  soft  humming  voice,  an  almost  inap- 
preciable interval  behind,  until  I  was  sure  she  had  heard 
the  air  before.  Then  I  tried  something  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble she  could  know,  and  to  my  delight  and  astonishment,  she 
repeated  her  achievement  in  a  perfectly  true  voice.  She 
reminded  me  of  Bihaura,  in  her  serious  application.  And 
she  was  so  very,  very  winsome  and  pretty,  was  Vavia,  with 
her  round-breasted,  round-limbed  body  and  the  infantile  fair 
curls  on  her  round  head.  She  made  me  pensive  and  very 
wistful,  for  I  am  sure  she  was  more  than  a  half-soul — such 
as  are  the  bulk  of  these  evil,  sub-human  creatures  who  people 
her  land.  We  were  loath  to  let  each  other  go,  Vavia  and  I, 
lingering  behind  the  rest  at  the  end,  with  clinging  fingers. 
How  she  wanted  to  learn,  and  how  I  should  have  loved  to 
teach  her. 

Sio  is  an  exquisite  gem  of  the  sea,  perched  on  the  coral,  in 
two  sections,  with  a  tiny  lagoon  between,  wherein  float  canoes 
inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl.  Great  banyans  grow  among  the 
thatched  houses  and  overhang  the  low  battlements  of  the 
walls,  and  the  cocoanut  palms  are  heavy  and  fruitful.  The 
lanes  echo  to  voices  of  plump  pickaninnies,  and  we  saw  never 
a  half-caste — the  grim  reason  being,  so  we  were  led  to  be- 


410  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

lieve,  that  any  child  showing  white  blood  is  destroyed  at 
birth. 

Tuesday,  August  18,  1908. 

We  returned  to  Main  for  the  purpose  of  picking  up  a 
bunch  of  promised  recruits  on  our  way  to  Gubutu  and  the 
Snark.  But  no  arrangement  of  one's  activities  in  the  Solo- 
mons ever  eventuates  as  mapped  out.  And  here  was  where 
Jack  and  I  went  through  an  almost  classic  experience,  viewed 
with  the  Melanesian  twist. 

Captain  Jansen  decided  to  lie  at  Malu  over  night,  so  we 
took  advantage  of  the  afternoon  to  see  a  little  more  of  the 
shore.  Mr.  Caulfeild,  who  came  out  with  generous  offerings 
of  fresh  vegetables  and  bread,  warned  us  that  a  bad  lot  were 
prowling  about  near  the  beach,  led  by  a  certain  chief  so 
notoriously  pernicious  and  the  author  of  so  many  murders 
that  the  government  had  been  looking  for  him  a  long  time. 
So  we  landed  with  eyes  open  and  revolvers  handy.  My  back 
had  by  now  grown  callous  to  the  irk  of  the  holster.  Jack 
and  I,  in  bathing  suits,  treated  ourselves  to  a  bath  in  the 
dark  still  river,  overarched  with  lofty  trees,  some  of  them 
banyans  that  covered  acres  with  their  tentacles — vegetable 
octopuses.  The  pink  strand  and  blue-green  bay,  with  the 
sparkling  sunlit  reef,  was  a  dazzling  contrast  to  the  dense 
green  gloom  where  we  stood  shoulder-deep  in  the  cool  slow 
flood  of  the  river.  Men  from  the  Minota  stood  guard,  and 
we  were  careful  to  hide  our  guns  at  a  little  distance  from 
our  heaps  of  clothes,  as,  in  case  the  latter  were  taken,  the 
savages  thinking  the  arms  would  be  in  them,  we  ourselves 
could  rush  to  the  guns.  It  sounds  lurid  and  spectacular,  I 
know,  but  was  all  necessary  commonplace.  It  was  not  a  case 
of  the  horse-play  theatricals  sometimes  practised  on  "new 
chums. ' ' 

After  our  dramatic  ablutions,  Captain  Jansen  took  us  for 
a  walk  through  the  mangroves  alongshore,  going  ahead  with 
pistol  in  hand.  This  was  the  first  time  we  had  ever  tried 
to  make  our  way  among  these  remarkable  roots.  The  earth 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  411 

was  of  a  rich  black,  saturated,  "squdgy,  sludgy"  quality, 
and  where  we  turned  uphill  the  bush  trail  reeked  with 
dampness  and  mould.  We  felt  very  subdued  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  dark-souled  savagery,  spoke  low  and  stepped  warily. 
But  Captain  Jansen  did  not  lead  far — even  he,  so  unafraid, 
knew  where  special  caution  should  enter  in.  If  any  human 
thing  lurked  in  the  jungle,  we  saw  it  not,  and  the  silence  was 
heavy  and  oppressive. 

By  the  time  we  were  once  more  on  the  sunny  hot  shingle  of 
coral  and  shell,  the  bad  high-bush  chief  with  his  gang  had 
come  into  the  open,  or  nearly  so,  keeping  just  inside  the  edge 
of  the  trees — a  tall,  lean,  sneaking  individual  with  cunning 
eyes  set  near  together,  and  an  unclean  fringe  of  whisker. 
The  smiling  friendliness  of  our  meeting  with  him  was  rather 
comic,  as  we  all  were  patently  pretending  that  we  were  not 
taking  inventory  of  one  another's  weapons,  and  the  mock 
armed  equality  was  rather  overborne  when  that  engaging 
swashbuckler,  Jansen,  with  the  most  ingratiating  insouciance 
took  the  chief's  old  Snider  and  emptied  the  horrible,  soft- 
nosed  cartridges  into  my  hand. 

"Nice  little  barn-door  that  would  make  in  one's  carcass, 
no?"  he  commented,  returning  the  loaded  gun  to  its  owner, 
and  taking  another  from  one  of  the  blacks. 

"Look  at  this  old  cartridge,  all  made  over.  This  beggar 
is  a  returned  Queenslander,  and  they're  the  worst  of  the  lot, 
for  they  know  firearms  and  teach  the  rest  how  to  make  this 
sort  of  thing.  They  smuggled  guns  back  into  the  bush  with 
them,  and  there's  been  the  devil  to  pay  ever  since." 

He  also  referred  to  what  we  had  already  learned,  that 
these  people  know  nothing  of  marksmanship,  and  for  this 
reason,  and  also  to  conserve  their  scarce  ammunition,  they 
shoot  only  at  close  range,  and  from  the  hip — insuring  the 
most  awful  abdominal  damage  to  the  victim. 

At  Jansen 's  sociable  suggestion,  as  if  for  the  special  en- 
tertainment of  the  others,  Jack  emptied  a  few  magazines 
from  his  Colt's  Automatic,  and  the  bushmen  stared  and 
emitted  guttural  sounds  of  astonishment  and  awe  at  the 


412  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

stream  of  lead  the  pickaninny  fella  gun  belong  white  man 
could  pour  out.  My  modest  Smith  &  Wesson,  being  in  the 
hands  of  a  mere  Mary,  impressed  them  to  foot-shifting 
embarrassment.  The  fact  that  we  can  hit  objects  at  a  dis- 
tance also  acts  as  a  check  to  undue  mischievousness  on  their 
part.  And  in  view  of  later  happenings,  our  bombast  was 
lucky  for  us. 

Wednesday,  August  19,  1908. 

At  nine-thirty,  after  a  wade  in  the  river,  we  of  the  Minota 
set  sail  in  an  ebb  tide  for  the  final  lap  of  our  ' '  blackbirding ' ' 
cruise,  with  some  forty  new  recruits  on  deck,  to  say  nothing 
of  a  half  dozen  Marys  bound  for  another  port  beyond  Gubutu. 
The  wind  was  baffling,  and  the  current  setting  strong  upon 
the  ugly  point  of  reef.  Just  as  we  were  about  to  clear  it, 
the  wind  broke  off  several  points.  We  tried  to  go  about,  but 
the  Minota  for  once  missed  stays.  Jansen  never  had  got  back 
two  of  three  anchors  lost  at  Langa  Langa,  and  he  now  let  go 
the  one  remaining  one,  giving  plenty  of  chain  that  it  might  get 
a  hold  in  the  coral.  The  bronze  fin  keel  ground  on  the  reef, 
and  the  main  topmast,  which  we  knew  to  be  risky  from  dry- 
rot  (although  only  four  years  old)  angled  from  the  upright 
mast  in  a  way  that  threatened  our  skulls.  A  huge  comber 
raised  and  threw  us  farther  on  the  reef  just  at  the  instant 
the  vessel  fetched  up  on  the  slack  of  the  cable,  and  the  chain 
parted — our  only  anchor  gone.  We  swung  around  and 
plunged  bow-first  into  the  breakers,  crunching  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  brittle  surface  of  the  adamant  ledge. 

The  instant  the  Minota  struck,  the  boat's  crew  had  sprung 
to  their  rifles  and  stood  facing  shoreward.  This  seemed  to 
us  a  touch  showy  and  unnecessary ;  but  in  an  incredibly  few 
minutes  the  bay,  which  had  been  deserted  except  for  a  few 
desultory  small  fishing  canoes,  was  thronged  with  boat-loads 
of  eager  headhunters,  rifles  and  spears  and  clubs  sticking  out 
in  all  directions.  The  captain  told  us  this  springing  of  the 
crew  to  arms  in  such  situation  is  drilled  into  them  from  the 
start. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  413 

While  the  whaleboat  started  off  with  a  tow-line  in  an  at- 
tempt to  keep  us  from  smashing  farther  on  the  coral,  and 
Jansen  and  the  fever-shaky  mate  rigged  up  a  scrap  anchor 
from  out  the  ballast,  a  dead-line  of  a  hundred  feet  was  estab- 
lished, and  the  hungry-looking  savages  hung  there  in  their 
gorgeous  war  canoes,  willing  to  wait  any  length  of  time  for 
the  Minota  to  break  up  and  yield  her  loot  of  tobacco  and 
stores,  not  to  mention  other,  rounder  prizes. 

The  crew  behaved  splendidly,  likely  as  not,  in  the  main, 
more  from  deadly  fear  of  the  hostile  bushmen  than  special 
sense  of  loyalty  to  their  masters.  Some  of  the  recruits  had 
sprung  for  the  rigging  and  clung  there  frozen  with  fright; 
but  the  captain  got  most  of  them  below  deck,  and  presently 
had  them  hard  at  work  passing  the  pig-iron  ballast  up  on 
deck,  where,  as  the  tide  fell  and  the  vessel  jammed  down 
harder  and  harder  on  her  keel  and  rolled  over  from  side  to 
side,  the  eighty-pound  pigs  hurtled  dangerously  back  and 
forth.  I  came  near  losing  a  finger  in  one  dizzy  lurch. 

The  missionary,  whose  boys  had  run  to  him  with  the  news 
that  we  were  * '  lost, ' '  hastened  out  in  his  whaleboat,  and  then, 
Jack  with  him,  approached  the  dead-line  of  black  canoes, 
where  the  two  eloquently  tried  with  much  tobacco  to  bribe 
some  native  to  go  with  a  message  to  the  Eugenie,  five  miles 
away,  near  Sio,  either  to  sail  to  our  rescue,  or  bring  anchors 
and  cable.  Our  first  kedge  to  the  reef-shallow  on  the  other 
side  of  the  passage  had  parted  the  line,  and  our  plight  was 
increasing  momentarily,  with  a  heavy  surf  in  the  squalls. 

At  length,  one  old  man,  alone  in  a  tiny  canoe,  despite 
murmurings  from  the  others,  fell  to  the  bait  of  an  entire  half- 
case  of  tobacco — a  prince's  ransom — and  forthwith  started 
with  Jack's  note.  He  set  out  in  a  gusty  squall,  and  it  did 
not  seem  as  if  the  frail  shell  could  live  in  the  smother. 

In  the  meantime,  while  work  went  on  aboard,  and  divers 
tried  to  raise  the  lost  anchor,  and  the  shivering  sick  mate 
went  aloft  to  try  to  chop  down  the  tottering  topmast,  that 
good  man  Caulfeild,  unarmed  himself,  harangued  the 
malevolent  dead-line  in  true  militant  fashion,  telling  them  in 


414  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

thrilling  beche  de  mer  that  they  need  not  expect  to  get  any 
tobacco  from  the  Minota;  that  what  they  would  get  was  bul- 
lets, close  up  too  much,  thick  and  fast,  if  they  dared  come 
any  closer.  So  convincing  was  he,  and  so  determined  did 
we  appear  with  our  arsenal,  and  the  advantage  of  the  near 
Eugenie  already  being  advised  of  our  predicament,  that  the 
unpitying  vultures  finally  dispersed  their  close  formation, 
and  lay  around  in  the  bay  and  off  shore.  ' '  They  11  get  even 
with  Caulf eild  for  this,  I  fear, ' '  Jansen  said. 

Signal  fires  were  sending  up  their  bending  smoke-pillars 
all  over  the  steep  mountains,  and  we  could  not  fail  to  note  the 
gathering  of  clans  beachward;  while  the  longest  war  canoes 
we  ever  saw  were  coming  along  the  coast  and  entering 
the  bay — some  of  them  paddling  near  and  showing  the 
faces  of  returned  recruits  we  had  landed  at  Sio.  One  big 
canoe,  propelled  by  women,  dipped  out  after  a  while,  and 
was  allowed  to  take  off  our  Marys.  This  relieved  the  boat 
of  weight,  and  Captain  Jansen  considered  the  situation  well 
enough  in  hand  for  the  moment  to  send  ashore  spare  sails 
and  other  heavy  gear,  which  were  stored  in  a  little  shack 
he  kept  there  for  such  things.  The  returning  boat  reported 
a  restless  and  augmenting  mob ;  and  the  exodus  from  bush  to 
beach  was  taken  advantage  of  to  hold  a  big  market.  The 
crew  also  brought  back  lengths  of  trees  they  had  cut,  to  put 
under  our  keel  for  its  protection  from  the  coral,  and  our 
divers  did  some  splendid  work  placing  these  logs.  As  the 
water  lowered  and  wind  increased  in  ugly  squalls,  the 
swelling  breakers  lifted  our  helpless  hull  repeatedly,  crash- 
ing it  down  with  terrific  shocks,  when  it  would  roll  the 
deck  almost  perpendicular  only  to  duplicate  the  perform- 
ance to  the  other  side.  Everything  broke  loose,  above  and 
below,  and  the  blacks,  certain  the  bottom  would  cave  in, 
made  frantic  crushing  rushes  for  the  deck,  only  to  return 
laughing  foolishly.  The  wretched  Peggy  screeched  honestly 
and  shamelessly,  as  she  swept  across  the  floor  in  an  avalanche 
of  potatoes,  limes,  flour,  and  bilge-water;  the  men  yelled, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  415 

breakers  crashed,  and  it  was  altogether  a  nerve-racking 
bedlam. 

And  yet,  I  wasn't  afraid.  When  one  is  in  the  midst  of 
such  a  situation,  the  interest  is  so  breathless,  so  absorbing, 
and  so  much  there  is  to  do,  that  an  element  of  keen  joy  of 
living  enters  in.  Right  in  the  thick  of  the  first  trouble,  not 
wishing  to  be  in  the  way,  I  called  Nakata  (Wada  was  useless 
with  fear),  and  we  fought  our  way  through  everything  below 
to  the  stateroom,  where,  alongside  the  banging  drawers  of 
explosives,  we  packed  our  belongings  in  compactest  form 
and  order — manuscript,  clothes,  money,  typewriter — ready 
for  prompt  transportation  in  case  we  had  to  take  to  the 
whaleboat.  My  helper  was  cheerful,  even  enthusiastic: 

"Why,  Missis-n,  this  more  like  old  years  with  my  father, 
in  fish  sampan  in  what-you-call  Inland  Sea — oh,  Missis-n 
— big  blowing,  big  trouble,  many  time!" 

It  was  fully  three  hours  before  the  Eugenie's  whaleboat 
surged  into  sight  across  the  white-whipped  peaks  of  surf,  the 
yellow-haired  master  standing  at  the  steering-sweep — white 
man  to  the  rescue  of  white  man  the  world  over.  Jack  and 
I  were  solemnly  touched  with  the  romance  and  beauty  and 
bloodedness  of  it.  Captain  Keller  with  his  men  and  ours 
worked  for  heartbreaking  hours  trying  to  kedge  the  Minota 
off  with  the  new  anchors.  It  was  a  stirring  spectacle,  the 
boys  shining  with  sweat  under  the  brassy  midday  sun,  shout- 
ing and  crying  the  invariable  necessary  accompaniment  to 
their  every  endeavour. 

But  the  scene  we  shall  always  remember  above  all  others> 
was  when  the  missionary,  after  striving  steadily  with  the  rest 
to  help  us  out  of  peril,  said  smilingly: 

"Well,  we've  tried  and  tried,  one  way;  now  I'm  going  to 
try  the  other  way." 

He  forthwith  gathered  about  him  his  boys,  who  had  been 
put  in  charge  of  certain  of  our  rifles  (the  captain  thought 
wiser  to  disarm  several  of  the  crew  who  hailed  from  Malu), 
and  they  descended  into  the  wrecked  cabin,  finding  foothold 


416  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

where  they  could,  for  the  floor  had  been  ripped  up  to  get  at 
the  ballast.  And  down  there  in  the  dim  light,  with  the  ves- 
sel heaving,  falling,  crashing,  the  blue-eyed  man  of  Christ 
uncovered  his  fair  head  and  prayed  aloud  in  the  shouting 
din  where  above  men  toiled  with  fervent  profanity,  his  meek 
disciples  bending  their  brown  faces  on  their  hands  folded  on 
the  muzzles  of  the  guns.  Ensued  a  moment  of  silent  prayer, 
and  then  the  child-men 's  voices,  led  by  the  white  man 's  bari- 
tone, rose  and  fell  in  " Nearer,  My  God  to  Thee." 

And  when  it  was  ended,  they  returned  soberly  on  deck 
to  work  with  the  heathen. 

Jack  finally  consented  to  let  Mr.  Caulfeild  take  ashore  the 
typewriter  and  one  suitcase  of  manuscript  and  notes,  for  fear 
of  salt  water  below.  Care  was  observed  in  not  sending  a 
noticeable  amount  of  luggage,  lest  our  enemies  get  an  idea 
we  were  abandoning  the  ship.  Nakata  went  along  to  carry 
the  machine  up  the  steep  ridge;  and  when  he  came  back, 
with  the  missionary,  Jack  had  decided  after  all  to  make 
safe  the  remainder  of  our  things,  and  I  heard  him  say, 
''And  Mrs.  London  will  go  ashore  also."  I  was  glad  of 
this,  for  nine  hours  of  the  keen  excitement,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  violent  pounding,  had  nearly  exhausted  me.  Caul- 
feild assured  us  I  would  be  certainly  as  secure  in  the 
tambo  of  his  precinct  as  on  the  Minota;  so  I  dropped  into  the 
whaleboat  on  a  big  swell,  Peggy  in  my  arms,  and  was  rowed 
to  a  point  on  the  beach  nearest  the  trail.  Jack  sent  Nakata 
and  Wada  with  me,  and  we  carried  the  ship's  money  and 
the  mail.  Willing  hands  of  Christian  boys  helped  us  up, 
and  Nakata  bustled  about  making  me  comfortable  in  Mr. 
Caulfeild 's  one-room  shack,  with  a  mere  closet  adjoining 
which  contained  his  bed.  Wada,  with  his  spine  of  jelly, 
was  of  little  assistance;  but  his  countryman  foraged  in  the 
vegetable  garden  and  rustling  cornfield  in  a  little  meadow, 
and  served  me  a  delicious  and  welcome  supper.  He  is  pos- 
sessed by  the  very  spirit  of  loving  service,  that  brown  cherub. 

A  letter  home,  written  during  that  grave  night,  tells 
freshly  how  I  spent  the  hours : 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  417 

"And  here  I  am,  at  eight-thirty,  alone  on  the  windy  ridge 
but  for  the  two  Japanese  boys,  and  a  small  black  Christian 
who  is  patrolling  the  premises  on  his  own  account  in  defence 
of  the  'white  Mary/  with  a  long  strong  bow  and  a  quiver 
of  arrows.  He  just  now,  on  one  of  my  scouting  essays, 
told  me  quaintly  in  stage  whisper  that  Malu  beach  is  full  of 
*  wicked  men' — which  means  that  the  murderous  bushmen 
are  gathering  in  greater  numbers,  reinforced  by  neighbouring 
salt-water  men  of  the  worse  sort.  No  man  or  woman  ever 
knows  what  freaks  of  fancy  may  actuate  the  cannibal  brain, 
so  I  think  I  shall  not  go  to  bed  in  the  tempting  nest  Nakata 
has  laid  for  my  broken  back  and  aching  limbs  and  head,  al- 
though I  am  dead  tired  from  the  long  day  of  buffeting  down 
there  on  the  crashing  reef. 

"I  am  writing  at  a  little  green-topped  table  on  which  lie 
my  five-shooter  and  a  Winchester  automatic  rifle  containing 
eleven  cartridges.  Outside  is  an  intermittent  gale  of  wind, 
thrashing  the  banyans  and  palms,  whipping  the  breakers 
into  hoarse,  coarse  roaring,  varied  by  blasts  of  thunder,  and 
lightning  of  all  descriptions ;  and  through  the  clamour  I  can 
just  catch  the  pulling-calls  of  desperately  hauling  men  on 
yacht  and  reef,  as  they  work  to  clear  the  vessel  at  high  water 
— and  I  hope  and  strain  hope  until  it  hurts,  that  she  is  even 
now  leaving  the  bed  she  made  for  herself  in  the  coral,  to  float 
in  the  merciful  deep  water  of  the  bay.  I  cannot  see,  I  do 
not  know;  when  I  go  out,  every  quarter  hour,  I  can  only 
glimpse  a  light  far  below  on  the  reef,  which  is  blotted  out  by 
the  wet  veil  of  a  squall.  I  hear  no  shots,  and  am  fairly  cer- 
tain our  crowd  is  not  being  annoyed  by  the  scoundrelly  man- 
eaters  ashore.  I  am  not  exactly  happy,  with  my  man  out 
there,  tired  and  anxious  and  supperless;  and  the  yacht,  in 
spite  of  almost  unbelievable  staunchness,  may  break  up  in  the 
night.  They  could  get  away  in  the  whaleboats,  but  what 
would  they  meet  if  they  tried  to  land  on  the  beach — the  sav- 
ages knowing  the  ship  had  been  deserted ! 

"My  house  reels  and  whirls,  'lifts  and  'scends,'  all  but 
bumps.  I  came  ashore  for  rest,  and  rest  there  is  none,  for 


418  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  terrible  swaying  and  pounding  and  grounding  of  many 
hours  is  in  my  brain,  and  I  swirl  and  sway  on  solid  ground. 

"How  good  Jack's  face  would  look  in  the  doorway. 

"My  two  boys  are  sleeping  on  the  floor  near  by,  Wada 
moaning  and  twitching  in  a  light  attack  of  fever,  and  Nakata 
dead-o,  with  a  tired  face. 

"9:05.  Just  HOW  I  went  out  reconnoitring,  to  the  cau- 
tious edge  of  the  bluff,  but  could  detect  through  the  glasses 
no  change  in  position  of  the  distressed  ketch's  light.  Nor 
did  I  see  the  redeemed  James  on  guard.  I  stepped  quietly 
about  in  the  dense  blackness  twinkling  with  fireflies,  and  saw 
glow-worms  softly  luminous  in  the  damp  wold.  In  a  long 
silken  thrall  of  lightning  my  staring  eyes  saw  that  one  of  the 
piles  under  the  high  cottage  was  of  a  peculiar  bungling  shape ; 
and  I  walked  toward  it  with  gun  poised,  '  singing  out '  sharply 
in  the  vernacular :  '  What  name  stop  you  fella  ? — What  name 
belong  you  ? ' 

1 '  '  Jam-ees, '  meekly  responded  the  uncouth  post,  and  in 
the  utter  blackness  my  faithful  policeman  added:  'I  walk- 
about look  my  eye  belong  me. ' 

"Fortunately  I  never  was  timid  about  being  alone  in  a 
house,  or  I  should  be  *  properly, '  as  they  say  here,  scared  out 
of  my  wits  to-night,  in  spite  of  the  missionary's  assurances, 
for  it  comes  to  mind  that  I  heard  him  say,  before  the  Minota 
hung  up,  that  last  night  he  found  footprints  in  a  freshly 
made  vegetable  plot,  where  his  own  boys  know  better  than 
to  tread,  and  other  signs  of  prowlers. 

"10:45.  If  only  the  earth  would  not  seem  to  heave  and 
plunge  so!  I  am  tired,  tired,  tired,  and  have  been  awake 
since  three  this  morning,  when,  on  board  the  Minota,  the 
recruits  began  cooking  their  breakfast  of  sweet  potatoes. 
The  native  cook,  Bichu,  had  deserted  at  Sio. 

" — Wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  I  actually  should  have  to 
fire  on  some  one  ?  Well,  if  it  is  necessary,  I  '11  call  up  a  firm 
New  England  jaw,  and  go  to  it;  and  if  I  fire,  I'll  not  miss,  I 
promise ! 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  419 


"Thursday,  August  20. 

"The  missionary  returned  last  night  about  11:30,  just  as 
I  was  falling  into  a  doze  in  spite  of  myself.  I  must  have 
heard  Nakata  start  for  the  door,  for  before  I  knew  it,  I  was 
there  ahead  of  him,  and  met  that  gentle  soul,  Caulfeild,  re- 
volver in  my  hand,  albeit  with  the  muzzle  pointed  downward. 
He  reported  that  they  had  failed  to  move  the  yacht  at  high 
water,  because  every  line  bent  had  parted  at  strain.  (In 
twenty-four  hours  she  had  parted  two  anchor-chains  and 
eight  sturdy  hawsers. )  She  still  stuck  fast,  and  was  striking 
hard,  although  there  was  no  break  yet  in  the  bottom ;  and  he 
said  he  had  left  Jack  asleep  for  the  moment.  He  also  said 
the  beach  was  covered  with  armed  bushmen. 

''I  went  to  bed,  first  being  sure  that  Nakata  was  making 
our  good  friend  comfortable,  and  when  I  opened  my  eyes  at 
6 :30,  found  I  had  not  moved  from  where  I  fell  asleep.  The 
weather  was  still  blustery,  and  the  sky  soiled  with  thunder 
clouds,  but  the  sea  had  abated.  Captain  Keller  had  re- 
turned to  the  Eugenie  during  the  night,  and  his  whaleboat 
was  washed  on  the  rocks  twice  in  squalls;  but  he  made  the 
schooner,  and  brought  her  to  Malu  in  the  forenoon — her  ar- 
rival was  a  beautiful  sight  that  brought  tears  to  our  eyes. 
Her  presence,  coupled  with  the  stubborn  refusal  of  the 
Minota  to  become  flotsam  and  jetsam,  had  a  pacifying  effect 
on  the  cannibal  horde. 

"Last  evening,  Mr.  Caulfeild  carried  a  warning  to  the 
Minota  that  one  of  the  new  recruits  aboard  had  a  price  on 
his  head  of  fifty  fathoms  of  shell-money  and  forty  pigs ;  and 
the  modified  desire  of  the  baffled  headhunters  was  to  capture 
this  valuable  cranium.  Jansen  decided  to  take  the  offensive, 
and  went  in  the  whaleboat  to  the  beach,  where,  interpreted 
by  Ugi  (the  Red  Jew  we  called  him,  from  his  fairness  and 
a  ruddy  tone  in  his  wool),  he  had  told  the  sullen,  uneasy 
pack  a  few  things — the  essential  one  being  that  any  canoe 
sighted  that  night  within  range,  would  be  'pumped  full  of 
lead.'  Ugi  warmed  to  a  fine  frenzy,  and  finally  jumped  up 


420  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK 

and  down  in  the  sternsheets,  waving  his  arms  and  screaming 
shrilly  that  if  they  harmed  a  hair  of  his  captain's  head,  he 
would  drink  his  blood  and  die  with  him !  It  was  an  amazing 
performance,  proving  the  spark  in  the  clay  that  will  out. 

"Jack  came  ashore  this  morning.  I  met  him  on  the  trail 
in  a  shower  of  sunshine  and  rainbow  from  a  breaking  sky. 
He  was  very,  very  weary,  but  full  of  enthusiasm  over  indomi- 
table mankind  that  can  fashion  such  a  boat  as  the  Minota, 
and  fight  so  unwaveringly  and  cheerfully  for  endless,  unsleep- 
ing hours.  The  mate,  by  the  way,  had  been  thrown  into  a 
fearful  attack  of  fever,  and  had  lain  in  the  cabin,  senseless 
and  raving  by  turns,  but  had  risen  later  on,  weak  and  shat- 
tered, determined  to  go  on  working. 

"Captain  Jansen  kept  some  of  his  crew  on  guard  at  the 
storehouse  all  night.  When  Mr.  Caulfeild  came  ashore  near 
midnight,  a  bolder  chief  was  trying  to  break  through  the 
guard.  Caulfeild  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  threw  him 
backward.  And  he  and  the  muttering,  scowling  spawn  did 
not  dare  touch  the  white  man  who  blazed  at  them  with  his 
straight  blue  eyes — not  yet;  but  I  fear,  I  fear. — A  shack 
on  the  beach  under  the  bluff,  belonging  to  one  of  the  mission 
boys,  was  burned  during  the  night,  in  retaliation  for  his 
helping  the  white  men. 

"Small  Nakata,  with  a  parental  arm  half  around  Jack's 
husky  shoulders,  fathered  him  into  the  house,  brought  him 
every  convenience  of  toilette  that  he  could  muster,  the  while 
setting  the  wan  Wada  at  the  preparation  of  a  hot  break- 
fast of  rolls,  eggs,  and  coffee — and  a  steaming  tender  ear  of 
sweet  corn.  How  could  one  help  loving  such  a  creature,  and 
being  willing  to  live  and  die  with  him — die  for  him,  if  need 
came? 

"This  evening  we  packed  our  things  back  down  the  drip- 
ping trail,  and  were  taken  aboard  the  Eugenie.  I  was  to 
voyage  on  Harding 's  tambo  idol  in  spite  of  him,  and  beyond 
choice  in  the  matter." 

The  Minota  was  not  pulled  free  until  the  afternoon  of  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  421 

21st — two  nights  and  three  days  she  withstood  the  punish- 
ment of  sea  and  coral.  Three  whaleboats  towed  the  gallant 
shell  of  her  to  an  anchorage,  and  a  great  cheering  went  up 
from  us  in  the  schooner,  with  a  "Hurrah  for  the  Dutch!" 
— our  black  boys  dancing,  and  yelling  "Hita!  Hita!"  in 
shrill  falsetto.  The  Eugenie  was  to  take  us  to  Gubutu,  land 
her  raw  recruits  at  Pennduffryn,  and  return  as  quickly  as 
possible  to  Malu.  Captain  Jansen  came  aboard  to  shake 
hands  good-bye,  Jack  said  a  few  warm  words  for  the  wonder- 
ful time  he  had  made  possible  for  us,  and  Jansen  reddened 
pleasedly,  but  only  said,  as  they  wrung  hands : 

"That's  all  right,  old  man — leave  the  change  on  the  plate. 
— And  you,  Mrs.  London,  won't  you  please  leave  Peggy  for 
me  at  Meringe,  and  tell  Schroeder  to  bite  her  tail  off  good 
and  short,  and  I'll  pick  her  up  when  I  land  the  boys.  She 
already  hates  a  nigger — the  very  spit  of  her  mother!  and  I 
want  her  ready  to  train." 

Then,  not  wasting  a  minute  of  precious  time  in  getting  to 
work  reballasting  and  patching  up  his  raffle  of  rigging,  he 
swung  overside  into  his  boat  with  a  "Right  0 — so  long, 
good  people. — '  See  y '  in  Liverpool ! '  ' 

The  Eugenie  sailed  in  the  afternoon  of  the  22d,  and,  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure  (she  had  already  made  one  un- 
successful unaided  attempt  to  get  out),  had  three  whaleboats 
tow  her  past  the  bursting  surf.  Then,  a  boisterous  trade- 
wind  and  -sea  favouring,  we  swept  around  the  uttermost 
capes  of  black-hearted  Malaita,  and  down  to  Florida  (Ngela), 
sailing  past  the  trading  station  at  Gubutu,  into  the  Tulagi 
anchorage  near  by,  where  is  the  government  seat.  An  aeon 
of  time  might  have  passed  over  our  heads  in  the  race  of  man, 
for  from  primordial  red  savagery  we  crossed  smoothly  into 
the  machine  age.  The  harbour  of  Tulagi  presented  a  most 
populous  twentieth-century  picture — the  Makambo,  in  from 
Sydney,  the  Cambrian,  from  anywhere  and  everywhere,  and 
we  dropped  hook  just  astern  of  the  Evangel;  while  a  little 
distance  off,  we  saw  our  own  Snark,  and  the  planters  of 


422  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Pennduffryn  putting  off  in  surprised  haste  at  sight  of  Jack 
and  me  aboard  their  schooner.  Harding 's  face  was  a  study 
when  I  grinned  at  him  over  the  rail. 

We  were  lunched  on  the  Makambo  and  the  Cambrian,  at 
last  meeting  up  with  Captain  Lewes,  who  was  the  soul  of 
kindness,  sending  his  electricians  aboard  the  Snark,  and 
placing  any  and  all  things  at  our  disposal.  And  we  were 
invited  aboard  the  Evangel,  where  we  met  the  women  and 
men  who  spend  the  best  part  of  their  lives  going  about  these 
soul-slumbering  islands.  Miss  Florence  S.  H.  Young,  the 
head  of  the  South  Sea  Evangelical  Society,  twenty  years  ago 
became  interested  in  the  work  through  trying  to  civilise  the 
Solomon  men  working  on  her  father's  sugar  plantations  in 
Queensland;  and,  when  Australia  voted  "all  white,"  she 
followed  the  expelled  labourers  and  continued  and  enlarged 
her  activities. 

We  were  bidden  to  the  Residency  on  the  shining,  gardened 
bluff,  by  our  Naturalist  Among  the  Head  Hunters,  Mr.  C. 
M.  Woodford,  and  his  good  wife,  who  was  over  the  water 
from  England  to  see  him.  And  he  was  no  disappointment, 
this  clear-eyed  man  who  has  served  and  studied  the  most  of 
his  life  in  "the  terrible  Solomons" — a  man  of  learning  and 
of  great  personal  charm,  with  valuable  tomes  to  his  credit  on 
the  subject  of  the  flora  and  the  insect  life  of  the  Archipelago. 

Jack  had  by  now  definitely  concluded  to  lay  up  the  Snark 
at  Marau  Sound,  near  Pennduffryn,  with  her  crew,  take  a 
run  to  Sydney  on  the  next  following  trip  of  the  Makambo, 
and  go  into  hospital  for  an  operation.  So  we  engaged  passage 
ahead,  with  Captain  Mortimer,  and  went  aboard  our  blessed 
boat  for  the  short  cruise  to  Meringe  Lagoon  on  Ysabel,  with 
a  run  north  to  Lua-Nua  (Lord  Howe, — the  Ongtong-Java  of 
the  discoverer),  and  Tasman,  for  a  few  days.  This  would 
partially  compensate  for  the  failure  of  the  Bellona  and  Ren- 
nel  adventure,  for  Harding  had  backed  and  filled  until  Jack 
was  possessed  with  one  of  his  deep  disgusts,  and  I  knew  that 
that  particular  picnic  would  never  come  off.  On 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  423 


Wednesday,  August  26,  1908. 

We  left  Tulagi,  watered  at  Gubutu,  and,  with  Tehei  aloft 
to  watch  for  coral  patches,  had  just  cleared  the  wharf  and 
got  well  under  way,  when  an  unmistakable  American  voice 
shouted  from  an  anchored  ketch : 

' '  Long  time  since  I  've  seen  that  flag  here ! ' ' 

' '  How  long  ? ' '  Jack  demanded  genially. 

"Oh,  several  years,"  the  man  replied.  " — I  guess  you 
knew  the  schooner,  Sophie  Sutherland — Alec  McLean! — eh? 
How  about  that  Sea  Wolf!" 

And  in  the  brief  passing,  we  learned  that  he  was  a  Penn- 
sylvanian,  and  that  he  wished  there  was  room  for  him  on  the 
Snark.  How  many  wished  that!  We  did  not  blame  them 
—we  were  so  glad  to  be  there  ourselves.  And  the  happen- 
ings of  our  wonderful  nine  days  on  the  Minota  seemed  very 
remote — like  the  fulfilment  of  a  long  ago  dream. 

We  had  an  inspiriting  brush  with  a  big  recruiting  schooner, 
the  Malekula,  whose  men  we  knew  at  Pennduffryn,  until  our 
engine,  ever  faithful  in  failure,  broke  down.  After  a  night 
of  brisk  but  steady  wind  and  sea,  in  which  Jack  kept  un- 
broken vigil  (for  there  were  coral  shoals  to  dodge),  in  the 
morning, 

August  27,  1908. 

We  found  ourselves  rocking  along  the  northern  coast  of 
Ysabel,  her  mountains  all  lovely  colours  in  the  dewy  waking 
day.  Meringe  Lagoon  is  a  passage  formed  by  a  garland  of 
coral  and  islets  off  the  mainland,  the  waves  of  which  lap  the 
roots  of  mangroves  where,  above  the  water,  cluster  very 
edible  rough -shelled  oysters.  "Wait  till  we  tell  'em  at 
home  that  we  have  picked  oysters  off  trees,"  Jack  grinned, 
as  the  first  one  slipped  down  his  throat.  " — Say,  that 
tastes  like  another ! ' '  And  a  round  dozen  followed  after. 

We  came  to  rest  in  five  fathoms,  and  were  first  greeted 
from  the  beach  by  a  brace  of  enormous  terriers,  one  red  and 
rough  and  the  other  smooth  as  a  sorrel  horse.  The  pair 


424  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

trotted  like  a  span  of  ponies,  and  barked  with  throats  like 
bells. 

U0h,  they're  Prince  and  Biddy,"  Jack  cried,  and  Peggy 
set  up  a  hysterical  howl,  overbalanced,  and  plopped  over 
the  rail.  Once  in  the  water — for  the  first  time  in  her  life — 
instead  of  trying  to  get  back,  she  made  valiantly  for  the 
maternal  bosom,  where  Biddy,  beautiful  with  motherhood, 
raising  and  setting  her  narrow  feet  alternately  in  the  edge  of 
the  tide,  received  her  lost  daughter  with  a  thorough  going 
over  of  tongue  and  paw,  to  see  if  she  were  clean  and  sound, 
while  the  interested  but  more  dignified  sire  stood  a  little 
apart,  occasionally  wagging  his  shaggy  stub-tail.  I  have  for- 
gotten to  mention  that  Peggy,  most  human  of  four-footed 
beings,  had  contracted  at  Tulagi  a  perfectly  human  and  very 
painful  malady — urticaria.  Pitiable  as  were  her  deep  eyes 
of  suffering,  she  was  a  mirth-provoking  figure,  for  her  poor 
little  face,  broad  puppy-paws,  and  lank  and  as  yet  un- 
trimmed  tail,  were  all  shapeless  with  knobs.  She  tried  to 
hide  herself  under  canvas,  anything — but  any  contact,  how- 
ever slight,  made  her  shriek  with  sensitive  agony.  "I'm 
not  surprised  a  bit  at  Peggy  contracting  a  human  disease," 
Jack  had  commented.  He  had  had  urticaria  himself,  and 
was  in  full  sympathy  despite  his  laughter  at  the  asymetrical, 
unfinished  form  of  her,  like  a  partially  thumbed  dog  of  clay. 

Next  arrived  John  Schroeder,  and  his  assistant  Mr.  Mere- 
dith. Mr.  Schroeder  is  brother-in-law  to  Captain  Svenson, 
and  manager  of  the  plantation.  He  placed  his  house  at  our 
disposal,  and  regretted  that  he  was  minus  a  cook,  so  he 
could  not  ask  us  to  lunch.  We  had  both  men  eat  with  us, 
of  course,  and  listened  to  advice  about  careening  the  Snark. 
At  high  tide  we  ran  her  aground  on  a  steep-to  part  of  the 
beach  indicated,  and  strange  enough  it  was  to  feel  her  fore- 
foot stop  on  the  firm  sand — touching  for  the  first  time  in 
her  tale  of  many  thousands  of  miles  of  sea-faring.  As  the 
tide  went  out,  and  the  hull  lay  over,  all  hands  and  the  cook 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  425 

went  about  removing  the  astounding  accumulation  of  bar- 
nacles, working  until  ten  at  night.  It  was  a  wonder  she  had 
handled  as  well  as  she  had.  ''Gee!  They're  like  oysters/' 
Jack  delivered  himself,  trying  to  pry  a  large  shell  loose  from 
the  man-o'-war  copper  that  we  hadn't  laid  eyes  on  since  the 
boat  was  launched  from  the  ways  in  South  San  Francisco. 
Mr.  Schroeder  strongly  advised  that  I  sleep  ashore,  as 
the  yacht  would  assume  all  sorts  of  unrestful  angles.  Jack 
begged  me  to  comply,  although  he  felt  that  he  must  stay 
aboard,  as  there  was  more  or  less  risk  to  the  boat  in  careen- 
ing on  so  sharp  an  incline.  He  sent  Nakata  along  with  me, 
and 

August  28,  1908. 

When  I  arose  at  six,  to  the  resonant  boom  of  a  wooden 
drum  in  the  quarters  of  the  Malaita  boys,  after  eight  un- 
troubled hours,  I  found  the  little  man  curled  fast  asleep 
before  my  door,  where  he  had  lain  all  night.  He  sat  up, 
wide  awake  on  the  instant,  rubbing  his  cheerful  eyes.  Al- 
ways he  knows  exactly  where  he  is  at  the  moment  of  awaken- 
ing— no  slow  Oriental  drowse  in  his  return  to  consciousness. 

Wada,  who  had  perked  up  considerably  when  he  sailed  out 
of  Malu  on  the  Eugenie,  had  lapsed  when  the  Snark  touched 
Ysabel.  We  explained — what  he  could  see  with  his  own 
eyes — that  the  Ysabel  natives  are  of  a  better  grade  (they 
have  a  very  slight  infusion  of  Polynesian),  that  there  are  no 
bad  bushmen.  All  to  no  avail;  he  knew  the  plantation  was 
worked  by  Malaitans,  and  his  terror  augmented,  throwing 
him  into  fever  again. 

When  Mendana,  nearly  four  hundred  years  ago,  discov- 
ered ''Santa  Ysabel  de  la  Estrella,"  he  found  the  natives 
lived  principally  on  cocoanuts  and  roots,  and  was  beginning 
to  think  they  lacked  animal  food,  when  a  chief  sent  him  a 
lordly  present,  a  quarter  of  a  boy,  with  the  hand  and  arm  at- 
tached, and  was  deeply  offended  when  it  was  promptly 
buried.  We  trusted  Wada  had  not  heard  this  scrap  of  his- 


426  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

tory.  As  soon  as  he  went  down  with  fever,  Nakata,  to  our 
surprise  and  pleasure,  stepped  gaily  into  the  galley,  and  pre- 
pared a  meal  of  which  oysters  fried  in  batter  was  but  the 
appetizer.  "Oh,"  he  grinned,  "I  'look  'm  eye  belong  me' 
one  year  now,  and  I  t'ink  I  can  cook  good  'kai-kai.'  "  And 
"Perhaps,"  he  added  musingly,  "I  shall  be  with  you  always; 
and  I  like  to  learn  all  kinds  of  work." 

To  my  delight — and  sorrow,  when  I  thought  of  parting — 
Peggy  established  herself  my  shadow,  as  if  she  considered  her- 
self my  particular  property  and  devoted  slave.  Mr.  Schroe- 
der  had  done  his  worst — and  best — to  her,  as  was  eloquently 
attested  by  a  gory  bandage  at  one  end  and  a  plaintive  voice 
at  the  other.  Never  was  there  such  a  puppy.  Her  brother, 
Possum,  himself  an  adorable  armful,  appeared  a  mongrel 
beside  this  fine,  super-soul  of  a  dog,  Peggy — "Peg-tail"  for 
the  nonce.  Martin  earned  indignant  protest  from  Jack  and 
me  when  he  said,  honestly : 

"She's  a  nice  enough  dog,  I'll  admit;  but  I  can't  see  she's 
any  different  from  any  ordinary  yellow  cur. ' ' 

The  only  criticism  of  Peggy  ever  wrung  from  Jack  was 
when,  having  wallowed  instinctively  and  luxuriously  and 
thoroughly  in  a  rotting  carcass  on  the  beach,  she  tempestu- 
ously flung  herself  to  cuddle  in  his  neck,  where  he  lay 
against  a  rock  on  the  beach: 

"You  brute— you  filthy  imp— Peggy,  Peggy,  I  thought 
you  were  a  white  woman!"  he  concluded  accusingly  to  the 
abject  heap  that  cowered  where  he  had  involuntarily  flung 
her. 

Well  it  was  that  Jack  stayed  by  the  yacht,  for,  having 
worked  a  little  farther  up  the  slope  at  high  water,  she  nearly 
capsized  outward  at  low.  Jack  went  through  a  terribly 
anxious  period  as  he  observed  that  she  did  not  right  in  the 
rising  tide,  and  the  water  crept  and  crept  over  the  rail,  up 
the  vertical  deck,  until  it  lapped  the  edge  of  the  skylight. 
Then  he  acted,  and  things  popped  for  a  while  as  additional 
lines  were  carried  ashore  from  the  mastheads.  It  was  nip 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  427 

and  tuck  for  a  time,  but  at  last  the  heavy  hull  slowly  began 
righting.     Every  one  looked  strained  after  the  close  call. 

For  me,  the  two  weeks  at  Meringe  Lagoon  were  a  stretch 
of  almost  unmitigated  repose  and  beauty — long  nights  of 
sleep,  rainbow  mornings  on  the  curving  pink  north  beach, 
on  the  way  to  the  Snark,  Prince  and  Biddy,  those  wedded 
comrades,  racing  and  frisking  along  to  a  swim  aboard,  where 
they  knew  awaited  them  a  bite  or  two  of  delicious  fried 
pigeon,  or  broiled  goat  (Martin  went  hunting  on  a  tiny 
reef  island),  or  succulent,  coloured  fishes;  happy  hours  of 
work  aboard  or  ashore,  romps  with  the  pups,  and  an  occa- 
sional swim — always  a  risky  amusement,  what  of  sharks 
and  crocodiles,  both  of  which  we  saw  from  the  yacht.  Our 
stay  was  delayed  beyond  the  few  days  we  expected,  waiting 
for  bigger  tides  to  careen  the  hull  properly. 

I  had  been  looking  forward  for  months  to  finding  turtle 
shell,  and  here  the  natives  brought  a  " scale"  or  so  aboard, 
the  armour  of  the  huge  Hawksbill  turtle,  some  of  the  pieces 
eighteen  and  twenty  inches  long,  and  broad  in  proportion. 
But  Mr.  Schroeder,  learning  my  desire,  opened  up  a  box 
of  specially  selected  pieces,  already  sealed  for  shipment, 
and  told  me  to  select  the  best  of  his  best.  Of  course,  Jack 
would  not  listen  to  a  gift  of  such  value,  for  the  choice  shell 
brings  a  large  price  in  Sydney,  and  our  friend  at  length, 
overborne,  consented  to  talk  business.  It  was  the  thickest  and 
most  beautifully  marked  shell  we  ever  saw,  and  Jack  revelled 
with  me  in  picking  out  a  goodly  pile.  Already  I  was  sketch- 
ing designs  for  combs  and  pins,  and  dressing-table  boxes, 
while  Nakata,  fired  with  enthusiasm,  could  hardly  wait  to  get 
where  he  might  buy  tools  and  learn  to  work  the  enticing 
material. 

Martin  tramped  to  a  hill  village,  but  we  did  not  go  into 
the  interior.  Only  one  trip  we  made  from  the  Lagoon,  and 
that  was  to  a  dot  of  uninhabited  islet,  Kiaba,  a  few  miles 
directly  north,  to  shoot  the  pigeons  that  home  there  after- N 
noons  from  their  mainland  feeding.  Mr.  Schroeder  took  us 


428  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

across  the  indigo  summer  sea  in  a  nineteen-foot  open  cutter 
with  a  large  sail.  Kiaba  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  round 
miniature  sea-girt  garden  of  Eden,  a  dozen  feet  high  and  a 
third  of  a  mile  across  its  sanded  floor,  ringed  with  a  gleam- 
ing beach  of  disintegrated  coral,  a  handful  of  which  looks 
like  ground  colours.  The  woods  are  a  breathless  Paradise 
of  big  white-shafted  trees  and  lightsome  foliage  of  banyan 
and  bamboo,  tendrilled  with  lacy  creepers.  The  stillness  was 
broken  only  by  the  coo  and  rustle  of  pigeons  and  the  stir  of 
strange  forms  that  clung  to  trunk  and  limb.  It  seemed  a 
shame  to  discharge  a  gun  in  such  environment — until  we  had 
a  good  look  at  our  first  iguana,  three  and  a  half  feet  in 
length.  "Gee!  look  at  the  alligator  up  a  tree!"  Martin 
gasped;  and  I  wondered  if  this  could  be  one  of  Woodford's 
"lizards  several  feet  long."  At  any  rate,  so  utterly  evil 
is  the  appearance  of  an  iguana,  so  absolutely  is  it  a  conven- 
tional devil  in  shape  and  style,  that  it  invites  destruction. 
We  played  it  was  the  Serpent,  and  blew  off  its  horny  head. 
Yet  it  is  as  harmless  as  it  is  horrible,  the  poor  iguana. 

Martin  and  I,  with  much  yelling  and  laughter,  chased  a 
frightened  shark  in  the  reefy  shallows  off  shore,  trying  to 
hit  it  with  our  pistols.  On  the  jewelled  beach,  where  our 
every  step  flushed  a  clatter  of  tiny  hermit-crabs,  Schroeder 
found  a  turtle 's  nest,  from  which  we  gathered  a  hundred  eggs 
like  ping-pong  balls,  buried  eighteen  inches  in  the  sand.  I 
never  ate  anything  better,  in  way  of  an  omelette,  than  those 
Nakata  made  from  the  tiny  soft-shelled  eggs.  The  con- 
sistency was  as  if  they  had  been  mixed  with  a  pinch  of  fine 
corn-meal,  and  the  flavour  was  excellent. 

There  must  have  been  too  much  excitement  for  me,  or  it 
might  have  been  the  extra  coolness  of  the  day,  for  I  was 
stricken  suddenly  with  fever,  and  went  through  a  novel 
sweating — swathed  in  the  boat 's  canvas,  and  laid  on  the  beach 
in  the  sun,  with  my  head  shaded.  How  touchingly  kind  and 
tender  men  can  be !  They  carried  me  back  to  Ysabel  in  the 
bottom  of  the  cutter,  weak  and  with  a  racing  pulse,  but  noisy 
and  optimistic.  Fever  grows  to  be  all  in  the  day's  work 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  429 

here — Wada  to  the  contrary;  and  Henry  is  not  as  yet  re- 
signed to  its  recurrences. 

Seventeen  pigeons  were  all  we  bagged,  and  Jack  had  been 
hugely  put  out  at  finding  that  the  smokeless  cartridges  he 
had  ordered  were  black  powder.  But  it  was  a  red  letter 
day  anyway. 

The  Southern  Cross  dipped  behind  a  towering  height  of 
Ysabel  as  we  ran  homeward,  and  a  silver  moon  two  days  old 
sank  into  the  fainting  rose  of  the  west.  Soon  the  bright 
sky  clouded  over,  and  our  placid  day  of  sun  and  smooth 
sea  was  followed  by  a  night  of  rain  and  squalls — the  "dusty" 
weather  that  comes  with  the  moon's  first  quarter.  But  be- 
fore the  wind  blew  up,  we  gave  the  shore  and  ourselves  a 
treat  with  the  searchlight,  fish  leaping  by  thousands  out  of 
the  illuminated  water,  where  the  reflections  of  our  mooring 
cables  wrinkled  like  black  snakes. 

The  upshot  of  the  outing  to  Kiaba,  in  spite  of  caution,  was 
bush-poisoning  for  us  all — the  excruciating  "  scratch- 
scratch,"  ngari-ngari,  that  did  for  the  Sophie  Sutherland's 
doomed  crew.  Jack  had  it  the  worst,  Martin  and  I  ruefully 
admitted  while  we  vainly  tried  to  keep  our  hands  quiet. 
Nakata  had  caught  it  on  Guadalcanal,  and  to  our  great  sym- 
pathy confessed  that  he  had  not  sat  down  for  a  month,  and 
that  he  was  now  obliged  to  tie  his  hands  at  night.  We  all 
pitched  into  the  lysol,  and  added  another  kind  of  doctoring 
to  our  list,  alternately  dosing  Solomon  sores  with  peroxide 
of  hydrogen  and  other  things — our  bottle  of  corrosive  subli- 
mate solution  having  been  finished  on  the  Minota,  and  our 
main  supply  of  tablets  left  at  Pennduffryn.  Jack,  who  had 
now  completed  his  article  " Cruising  in  the  Solomons,"  set 
to  work  on  another,  "The  Amateur  M.D.,"  wherein  he  ex- 
ploited his  medical  experience  from  pulling  teeth  on  Nuka- 
Hiva  to  abating  "scratch-scratch"  on  Ysabel. 

On  September  7,  Wada,  terrified  by  light  recurrent  attacks 
of  fever,  parted  with  his  last  vestige  of  common  sense,  and 
with  the  Snark.  I  was  not  on  board  when  he  announced  his 
intention  to  quit.  It  followed  the  serving  of  a  very  much 


430  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

overripe  goat-stew  with  a  cup  of  inexcusably  weak  and  dish- 
watery  tea,  all  of  which  Jack  pushed  aside.  Wada  was  some- 
what taken  aback  by  the  way  Jack  accepted  and  accelerated 
his  resignation.  "Very  well,  Wada — pack  up  your  things 
quick,  while  I  get  your  money;  and,  Henry,  you  have  the 
boat  ready. " 

Months  of  wages  were  due,  and  an  extra  regular  allow- 
ance or  present  Jack  had  credited  him  ever  since  the  beating 
up  Warren  had  meted  him — altogether  an  unwise  sum  for 
a  lone  Japanese  to  carry  about  on  his  person  should  the 
natives  get  wind  of  it.  Poor  muddled  mortal — he  had  a 
notion  he  could  walk  right  into  the  plantation  kitchen,  as  he 
had  heard  Mr.  Schroeder  say  they  were  distressed  for  want 
of  a  cook;  but  direly  as  that  true  gentleman  needed  one,  he 
met  Wada's  shameless  proposal  with  cool  refusal. 

Nakata  helped  his  friend  pack  and  land,  then  came  imme- 
diately back  to  the  Snark,  stepped  into  the  galley  and  said  he 
would  be  glad  to  cook  for  us  any  length  of  time  it  might  take 
to  get  another  cook.  But  he  made  it  plain  that  no  salary 
could  tempt  him  to  cook  permanently.  ' ;  I  t  'ink  sea-cook  all 
get  crazy  in  head ! ' '  he  smiled  his  reason.  In  return  for  his 
help  in  the  difficulty,  Jack  promised  him  the  steamer  trip  to 
Australia,  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  other  emoluments. 
There  was  more  than  a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  boy's  sturdy 
attempt  throughout  to  be  loyal  both  to  us  and  to  his  coun- 
tryman. 

After  Schroeder 's  turn-down,  Wada  declared  he  would  go 
a-tramping  in  the  bush,  albeit  he  was  scared  of  his  very  life. 
But  it  was  discovered  that  he  was  hiding  in  a  near-by  native 
hut,  in  hope  that  Schroeder 's  mind  might  change  when  we 
were  safe  out  of  ken. 

A  conviction  had  been  growing  in  my  brain  that  it  would 
not  be  good  for  Peggy  and  myself  to  part.  The  little  super- 
animal  clung  to  me  night  and  day,  and,  when  not  in  actual 
contact,  sat  and  regarded  me  with  fathomless  great  eyes  of 
love  and  speculation  that  made  me  almost  apprehensive.  So, 
when  the  day  of  sailing  came  round,  I  left  a  letter  for  Cap- 


The  Impact  of  Civilisation 


Crew  of  Snark  at  Pennduffryn 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  431 

tain  Jansen,  stating  the  case  clearly — that  I  could  not  yet 
bring  myself  to  separate  from  Peggy,  and  would  deliver  her 
over  to  him  when  we  returned  to  Pennduffryn.  .  .  .  Jack 
watched  me  curiously — I  had  merely  stated  my  intention  and 
asked  no  advice.  I  suppose  he  concluded  that,  doing  such 
an  unusual  thing — for  me — as  to  steal  another  person's 
property,  I  must  be  acting  in  the  only  way  I  could  act. 


Thursday,  September  10,  1908. 

Jack  says  he  never  shall  know  just  what  did  happen  when 
we  attempted  to  get  away  from  Meringe  Lagoon — or,  at  least, 
the  cause  of  what  happened.  The  yacht  was  floated  at  3  A.  M., 
and  lay  at  her  largest  anchor,  which  was  properly  provided 
with  a  tripping-line  to  make  sure  it  could  not  foul.  At 
eight,  when  we  began  heaving,  the  thing  would  not  hoist,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  seemed  to  be  dragging,  as  if  it  had  got 
caught  under  a  cable.  The  boat  with  her  skating  hook  was 
drifting  fast  toward  a  ledge  of  inshore  reef,  and  our  friends 
on  the  beach  began  to  look  anxious.  The  anchor  still  failing 
to  break  out,  still  dragging,  we  hove  until  we  parted  the  big 
main  hawser  and  the  tripping  line. 

"Find  it,  and  you  can  have  it!"  Jack  shouted  shoreward, 
once  he  was  clear  of  entanglement.  Fortunately  we  were 
not  really  crippled  by  the  loss,  as  it  was  an  emergency 
anchor,  say  for  on  a  lee  shore  in  a  blow ;  but  we  were  sorry  to 
let  it  go. 

There  was  a  heavy  cross-sea  outside,  which,  with  the  brisk 
easterly  wind,  made  every  soul  of  us  sick  except  Henry,  who, 
like  Herrmann  of  old,  is  blessedly  immune.  We  have  logged 
no  less  than  a  steady  seven  knots  all  day  in  the  adverse  sea, 
and  figure,  at  this  clip,  to  see  Lua-Nua  (Lord  Howe)  early 
to-morrow  forenoon — one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  north  of 
Meringe. 

We  parted  with  some  of  our  stores  to  Mr.  Schroeder,  as  the 
non-arrival  of  the  Minota,  by  way  of  Gubutu,  has  left  him 
short ;  and  today  Nakata,  creeping  about  after  a  tussle  with 


432  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

fever,  announced  with  concerned  and  puckered  visage  that 
we  had  kept  no  flour  for  ourselves.  Martin  exploded  "Im- 
possible!" But  his  search  of  the  snug  forepeak  was  fruit- 
less— or  flourless.  However,  toward  night,  when  we  all  began 
to  sit  up  and  feel  hollow,  our  stout  pilot  bread  was  as  satisfy- 
ing, we  thought,  as  Nakata's  hot  soda-biscuits  that  we  didn't 
get. 

The  weather  is  very  smoky,  and  we  are  wondering  if  it 
betokens  a  trade  gale. 

September  11,  1908. 

Wind  dropped,  and,  to  make  sure  of  port  to-day,  the  engine 
went  to  work  at  nine  and  a  half  knots,  acting  the  best  it  ever 
has  yet.  Jack  roughly  calculated  our  distance  from  Lua-Nua 
at  6  A.  M.  to  be  twenty  miles.  Everybody  felt  better,  and 
Nakata's  fever  had  burned  out.  He  was  even  chirpy  enough 
mildly  to  criticise  some  of  Wada's  galley  practices,  the  while 
he  whipped  batter  for  shrimp  fritters. 

The  island  failed  to  show  at  the  anticipated  time,  but  the 
sky  was  clear  enough  for  Jack  to  take  a  morning  sight.  Then, 
alas,  when  he  came  to  work  it  out,  he  found  he  had  left  at 
Pennduffryn  the  corrected  tables  he  had  so  laboriously  made 
up.  Hence,  also  out  of  practice  these  many  weeks,  he  was 
forced  to  dig  his  results  the  hardest  way.  And  such  results ! 
According  to  them  we  have  sailed  right  over  Lord  Howe,  and 
no  explanation  can  be  deduced  for  being  so  out  of  our  course. 

We  beguiled  ourselves  with  Peggy,  who  was  very  dull  yes- 
terday— probably  seasick.  In  spite  of  our  declaration  never 
to  risk  pets  on  so  small  a  boat,  we  now  find  ourselves  with 
this  fragile-boned  creature,  and  a  still  more  fragile  feathered 
one,  a  white  cockatoo  with  strawberry-pink  crest  and  round 
dilating  yellow-and-black  eyes,  which  Martin  mutinously 
brought  from  Tulagi.  As  its  wings  have  been  abbreviated, 
it  is  in  as  much  peril  about  the  ship  as  is  Peggy — more,  for 
it  cannot  get  out  of  the  way  so  quickly  with  its  two  legs. 
Peggy  is  jealous  of  the  cockatoo,  and  droops  dispiritedly 
when  she  hears  our  gales  of  laughter  at  the  canny  bird's 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  433 

pranks.  When  he  cannot  get  what  he  wants,  after  storming 
up  and  down  the  deck  and  ruffling  his  indignant  feathers  he 
changes  tactics,  climbs  up  our  wincing  arms,  lays  his  flat- 
tening crest  against  our  ears,  and  caresses  and  wheedles  in 
the  most  ingratiating  upward  inflection : 

"Hello!     Cock-ee/    Cock-ee/" 

Something  seems  to  tell  Peggy  that  she  will  be  hurt  if  she 
tampers  with  the  sharp-nosed  beak  or  prickly  toes;  and 
something  also  warns  her  that  any  annihilating  rush  at  the 
despised  biped  would  be  an  infringement  of  our  property 
rights.  Peggy  is  taught  more  from  within  than  without. — 
Which  reminds  me  that  to-day,  in  five  minutes,  she  learned 
to  "speak,"  and  in  the  same  five  minutes  grasped  that 
she  must  speak  like  a  lady,  * '  ever  gentle,  soft,  and  low, ' '  and 
not  like  wild-dog  puppies  from  the  unregenerate  and  vulgar 
bush.  To  carry  chicken  bones  to  the  painted  covering-board, 
whence  they  must  not  be  worried  off  to  the  white-scoured 
deck  planking,  will  require  two  lessons — not  because  she 
fails  to  compass  the  idea,  but  because,  with  a  ravenous  grow- 
ing-appetite, she  forgets  in  her  eagerness.  And  she  does 
apologise  so  generously  with  her  snuggling  black  velvet 
muzzle  and  great  speaking  eyes,  the  while  she  wags  the  un- 
lovely rag  on  her  violated  tail. 

It  was  a  strange  sweet  evening  we  spent  on  deck,  in  our 
puzzling  frame  of  mind,  the  softly  piled  clouds,  lighted  by  a 
drifting  moon,  casting  white  reflections  in  the  dark  grey  sea. 
Jack  hove  the  yacht  to  (she  handles  "like  a  witch"  with  her 
clean  hull),  and  lay  on  his  side  on  a  cot,  with  the  blissful 
puppy  curled  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm ;  and  Martin,  tired  from 
hours  in  the  engine  room,  and  feverish  in  addition,  flattened 
out  on  a  deck  mattress,  with  the  cockatoo,  head-under-wing, 
on  his  chest.  I  nestled  under  the  light  covers  of  a  cot  beneath 
the  awning,  and  hummed  Hawaiian  airs  to  my  thrumming 
ukulele,  until  the  men  all  were  breathing  deep,  except  Tehei 
who  had  taken  Martin's  watch. 


434  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


September  12,  1908. 

Did  ever  a  yacht's  company  spend  such  a  day?  Land 
there  should  have  been,  and  land  there  was  none.  It  is  the 
season  of  especially  unsettled  weather,  even  for  the  Solomons, 
wherein  the  southeast  trade  changes  to  the  northwest  mon- 
soon, and  everything  is  topsy-turvy.  Jack  got  a  most  unsat- 
isfactory observation,  which  again  attested  that  we  had  fabu- 
lously sailed  over  the  dry  land  and  shallow  waters  of  an  enor- 
mous atoll.  Our  patent  log  seems  to  be  in  perfect  condition, 
and  we  can  only  wonder  if  the  chronometer  is  out  of  order. 
Martin,  who  has  been  with  the  Snark  continuously  si&ce  we 
left  Pennduffryn  on  the  Minota,  swears  by  his  budding  beard 
that  he  has  never  neglected  the  daily  winding.  Can  tho  equa- 
torial current  be  setting  us  off  our  course  ?  With  the  worry 
of  this  unaccountable  situation,  with  fever  threatening,  and  a 
new  crop  of  small  sores  eating  into  his  nerves,  I  don 't  see  how 
my  husband  can  be  so  merry — except  that  he  relishes  a  set-to 
with  adventure  and  the  unknown.  On  top  of  everything,  he 
inadvertently  got  a  bad  sunburning  on  his  back,  while  reading 
at  the  wheel  in  a  net  singlet,  and  I  have  been  soaping  it  at 
intervals,  which  has  drawn  the  heat  and  brought  great  relief. 

Martin  tried  to  run  the  engine,  collapsed,  and  had  to 
lay  up.  Peggy  sustained  a  fall  which  would  have  been  a 
header  if  she  hadn't  curved  and  landed  on  the  end  of  her 
outraged  appendage,  to  an  accompaniment  of  piercing  shrieks 
which  Cockee  accurately  duplicated.  As  if  the  general  at- 
mosphere were  too  surcharged  for  any  thinking  bird,  the 
cockatoo  has  muttered  and  stuttered  and  nearly  burst  himself 
the  livelong  day,  trying  to  say  something  besides  "Hello, 
Cock-ee/"  Once,  when  Jack  had  persistently  replaced  the 
spoon  in  his  tea  (of  which  Cockee  is  inordinately  fond),  after 
the  bird  had  removed  it  repeatedly  with  great  pains  and  was 
ever  about  to  sip,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  fervid  swear- 
tone  that  filled  his  throat,  although  no  words  could  he  muster. 

I  took  the  second  dog-watch  for  Martin,  and  enjoyed  once 
again  the  two  hours  of  solitude  in  a  black  and  unstable  world. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  435 

It  was  squally,  with  a  rough  sea.  Full  many  a  month  it  is 
since  I  have  stood  a  watch,  and  my  only  steering  has  been 
when  making  entrances  and  departures. 


September  13,  1908. 

There  has  been  very  little  of  the  conventionally  enjoyable 
in  to-day 's  programme.  As  if  there  weren  't  novelty  enough, 
we  three  white  ones  have  been  deathly  sick  the  forepart  of 
the  day,  undoubtedly  poisoned  from  tinned  cabbage,  although 
we  had  hardly  swallowed  any  of  it  before  deciding  it  was 
"off." 

Weather  variable,  with  a  mean,  seasicky  swell.  Jack  se- 
cured three  sights,  seven  o'clock,  nine,  and  ten,  but  no  noon 
observation  to  follow;  nor  could  he  obtain  any  latitude  yes- 
terday. He  is  trying  to  hold  his  weatherly  position — to  the 
east — beating  to  wind  'ard  under  short  canvas  and  heaving  to 
at  night,  until  such  time  as  he  can  secure  a  good  sun-  or  star- 
observation  in  order  to  find  his  latitude.  This  determined, 
he  will  head  by  log  to  the  latitude  of  Lord  Howe,  and  run 
both  that  latitude  and  the  island  down  together  to  the  west- 
ward. We  humorously  think  of  ourselves  as  in  one  of  "the 
outermost  pits  of  the  sea/'  where  sun  and  stars  and  all  sta- 
bilities have  deserted  us.  Once,  to-day,  we  saw  an  ominous 
black  cloud,  while  under  it  a  waterspout  formed  and  spiralled 
— the  first  I  ever  witnessed. 

.  .  .  'Tis  the  twitching  hour  of  midnight,  when  tired  wives 
yawn ;  and  I  have  just  watched  Jack  fall  uneasily  asleep  in 
a  copious  sweat,  after  a  raving  period  of  intolerable  fever- 
burning.  The  blast  of  fever  struck  him  after  supper,  just  as 
we  vociferously  won  to  victory  over  Martin  in  a  rubber  of 
dummy  whist.  Our  vanquished  opponent,  who  was  suffering 
the  tortures  of  the  unredeemed  with  corroding  bluestone  on 
his  shin-sores,  and  had  preceded  the  playing  by  wiping  up 
the  cabin  floor  with  his  writhing  person  in  the  first  agonies  of 
the  fearful  application,  lost  his  temper  at  our  noisy  victory. 


436  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

This  being  the  only  time  since  the  Snark's  keel  was  laid  that 
we  had  ever  seen  our  blond  friend's  temper  disturbed,  I 
think  it  must  have  been  the  shock  that  overthrew  Jack's  equi- 
librium ! 

With  the  exception  of  the  man  on  watch,  I  am  the  only  one 
awake,  and  I  am  very  much  awake.  This  is  a  commonplace 
of  my  life — to  be  in  a  state  of  luminous  consciousness  in  the 
dark  hours,  while  all  else  is  normally  reposing.  But  every- 
thing becomes  commonplace  where  there  is  no  standard  of 
commonplaceness.  Consider  us  here,  aimlessly  adrift  in  a 
black  and  starless  world  of  water  above  and  below,  the  land 
of  our  objective  sunk  beneath  the  sea  for  aught  we  can  dis- 
prove, calmly  going  about  our  work-a-day  business  quite  as 
if  we  weren't  lost. 

.  .  .  Jack  is  sleeping  with  one  eye  half  open,  and  I  wish  he 
would  either  close  it  or  wake  up,  he  looks  so  ghastly.  The 
past  two  weeks  have  been  very  wearing  on  him — the  responsi- 
bility of  the  ship  careened  on  that  risky  incline,  the  loss  of 
rest,  and  the  shocks  of  fever.  But  he  takes  his  attacks  easier 
than  do  I,  for  at  their  height  his  mind  wanders,  and  in  the 
easement  of  temperature  he  falls  asleep,  and  so  misses  the 
conscious  nerve-suffering  that  I  endure  because  I  cannot  go 
out  of  my  head. 

September  14,  1908. 

The  first  I  heard  through  the  skylight  (it  had  been  too  wet 
to  sleep  on  deck)  was  an  inexcusable  punning  exclamation 
from  Martin: 

"Lord!  Howe  did  we  miss  that  island!" 

And  that  was  but  the  forerunner  of  similar  combinations, 
which  I  leave  to  any  imagination  foolish  enough  to  dwell 
upon  their  possibilities.  Even  poor  little  Nakata,  moaning 
and  turning  in  violent  malaria,  while  we  steamed  and  grilled 
him  in  the  hot  cabin,  gave  forth  little  cackles  in  his  conscious 
moments  at  our  brilliant  competition  (American  humour  is  an 
open  book  to  Nakata),  and  finally  poked  a  scarlet  face  from 
a  blanket  scarce  as  red,  and  finished  us  all  with  a  trembly: 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  437 

"Lord!  Howe  I  wish  there  was  no  fever  in  the  Solomon 
Islands — don't  I?"  and  then  wept  at  his  own  quip,  from 
sheer  nerve-rack  and  weakness. 

Yes — and  what  a  pity  that  so  wonderful  a  space  of  great 
islands,  so  rich  in  promise,  should  be  so  variously  unhealth- 
ful.  But  never  mind — such  things  are  beaten  out  slowly — 
the  day  will  come  when,  along  with  the  wondrous  savannahs 
on  Guadalcanal,  all  these  lands  will  be  brought  under  scien- 
tific cultivation  and  control,  the  striped  mosquito  that  is  the 
author  of  so  much  suffering  and  disability  shall  be  destroyed, 
there  shall  be  no  devastating  ulcer-poisoning  and  filthy  flies 
to  carry  it  to  flesh  that  is  no  longer  unantisepticised — a  time 
when  the  islands  will  lie  blossoming  under  the  light  of  ap- 
plied knowledge,  and  disease  and  unnecessary  death  shall  be 
no  more.  As  we  of  to-day  cannot  gaze  upon  this  certain 
reality  of  the  future,  it  is  good  to  see  it  in  the  mind's  eye. 

Eain,  rain,  rain;  and  the  barometer  rises  and  falls  as  if 
indicating  the  insanity  of  the  universe.  There  is  no  sun  to 
dry  out  above  and  below,  and  we  must  endure,  with  what 
fortitude  we  may,  the  encroaching  mouldiness  and  staleness 
and  stuffiness  of  our  quarters.  I  peer  into  lockers,  fingering 
the  wax-paper  wrappings  of  my  perishable  clothing  to  see 
if  they  are  intact,  for  these  are  disastrous  conditions  for  silk- 
stuffs  and  gold  threads,  and  the  very  atmosphere  implants 
indelible  rust-spots  in  linen  and  cotton. 

Tehei  cooked  to-day,  and  Martin  was  barely  able  to  help 
with  the  dishes ;  while  Jack,  in  his  stateroom,  hot  and  sealed 
against  the  torrential  downpour,  added  new  items  to  his 
"Amateur  M.D."  There  was  no  chance  for  a  noon  sight, 
and  a  late  partial  observation  proved  of  little  value.  Coming 
below  to  put  away  his  sextant,  he  smiled  brightly  at  me  and 
said: 

"The  most  remarkable  thing  about  our  whole  remarkable 
situation,  Mate  Woman,  is  the  way  you,  most  sensitive  of 
women,  nearly  transparent  from  lack  of  sleep,  go  about  doing 
anything  and  everything,  and  actually  enjoying  it  all.  The 
more  I  see  of  you,  the  more  I  marvel  at  you, ' ' 


438  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

I  was  really  taken  aback,  with  surprise  as  well  as  pleasure, 
for  it  hadn't  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  be  otherwise  than 
happy-hearted,  despite  tiredness  and  the  unresting  gnaw  of 
two  small  sores  that  have  taken  hold  on  my  instep.  I  am 
happy ;  I  am  having  a  good  time — the  time  of  times ;  for  I  am 
doing  what  I  want  to  do,  in  the  company  I  crave,  with  * '  life 
and  love  to  spare, "  and  too  absorbed  in  the  potentialities  of 
being  to  be  more  than  superficially  arrested  by  the  flip  of 
little  irks  or  fears.  Believe  me — there 's  been  more  vital  snap 
of  interest  in  the  few  hours  of  waging  war  with  Jack's  fever 
yesterday  and  Nakata's  to-day,  than  in  a  month  of  placid 
existence  in  well  regulated  conditions.  And  then,  think  of 
coming  up  for  a  breath  of  squally  air,  and  taking  a  turn 
barefoot  along  the  streaming  deck,  wondering  the  while  if  it 
has  settled  down  for  weeks  of  rain,  or  how  near  we  can  come 
to  missing  Roncador  Reef  to  the  south  (called  The  Snorer, 
and  18  miles  in  circumference) ,  or  if  we  may  drift  far  enough 
south  and  east  to  encounter  Bradley  Reef — both  deep-sea 
banes  of  mariners — or  how  many  other  reefs  there  may  be 
that  are  uncharted. 

Happy  ?  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life,  take  it  all  round, 
nor  with  more  reason.  Jack  says  we  are 

'*.  .  .  those  fools  who  could  not  rest 
In  the  dull  earth  we  left  behind, 
But  burned  with  passion  for  the  West 
And  drank  strange  frenzy  from  its  wind." 

September  15,  1908. 

Driven  out  at  six  by  the  insufferable  stickiness,  I  found 
Jack  at  the  wheel  all  glowing  in  a  deep  red  sunrise,  with 
Martin  and  Nakata  laid  out  completely,  while  Tehei  puffed 
and  perspired  in  the  suffocating  galley,  and  went  about  the 
cabin  work. 

"My  Lord,  Howe  bluff  you  look  in  that  good  sun!"  I  ven- 
tured to  Jack,  who  came  back  at  me  gaily,  nodding  to  the 
tragic  spectacle  on  deck: 

"With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings 
On  the  road  to  .      .  where?" 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  439 

1 1  Don 't  know,  and  don 't  care, ' '  expressed  my  feelings,  for  I 
had  slept  well,  if  briefly,  and  the  sun  was  drying  and  cheer- 
ful, if  hot.  Jack  was  able  to  get  morning  sights,  but  noon 
was  cloudy  and  he  failed  of  his  latitude. 

Martin 's  illnesses  are  of  an  exclusive  sort — unlike  the  com- 
mon fever.  I  can't  make  it  out.  He  absolutely  declines  to 
admit  that  he  has  fever,  and  will  take  no  quinine,  and  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  cannot  see  that  he  is  especially  feverish. 
He  is  up  and  down,  supine  for  hours,  then  recuperates  and 
sails  into  a  whist-game  with  dash  and  ambition.  It  may  be 
that  he  is  subtly  poisoned  by  the  chain  of  bandaged  ulcers 
on  the  lean  blades  of  his  shins. 

When  other  interests  flag,  there  are  always  the  cockroaches. 
I  go  on  still  hunts  for  them,  whopping  the  daring  ones  that 
scout  from  the  overhead  sliding  boxes  in  the  cabin,  and  occa- 
sionally taking  down  those  same  boxes  and  raiding  the  shell- 
backed  pests  that  have  grown  too  large  to  scout,  and  which 
finally  die  imprisoned.  But  no  cockroaches  on  the  ^Snark 
approach  in  size  the  enormous  night-frights  we  had  on  the 
Minota,  when  they  debouched  in  myriads  in  the  dark  and 
spread  wings  at  being  disturbed.  Ours  do  not  seem  to  have 
developed  wings ;  but  they  have  teeth,  and  steal  nibbles  at  our 
toes  while  we  sleep. 

.  .  .  There  is  more  than  a  vague  depression  among  us  this 
evening,  in  spite  of  Tehei  's  nice  supper,  an  exciting  rubber  of 
whist  and  my  efforts  on  the  "baby  guitar"  to  'liven 
things  up. 

"The  hospital  ship  Snark,"  Jack  summed  it  up,  and  there 
was  a  little  catch  in  his  voice,  for  on  my  bunk  lay  Peggy  the 
Beloved,  pulling  at  our  heartstrings  in  her  pain,  one  leg 
apparently  useless  from  a  fall  through  the  skylight  into  my 
room — the  eager  child  could  not  wait  to  go  around ;  and  on  a 
cushion  in  Martin's  bed  a  limp  cockatoo  that  has  grown 
strangely  dear,  with  his  affection  and  intelligence  and  his 
sense  of  humour,  breathes  with  difficulty  and  half-closed,  filmy 
eyes.  Tehei,  with  a  dozen  things  to  do  at  dinner  time,  rushed 
to  drop  the  skylight  in  a  sharp  rainsquall,  and  shut  it  on  the 


440  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

napping  bird  roosting  under  the  edge.  The  frail  frame  of 
him  seems  to  be  crushed,  but  we  want  to  give  him  every 
chance.  Just  now  we  feel  guilty  that  we  ever  broke  our  rule 
about  pets  on  the  voyage. 

Tehei  has  been  touched  by  the  over-animal  consciousness 
displayed  by  Peggy  and  the  bird,  and  shakes  his  head  again 
and  again,  with  his  sweet  Polynesian  smile: 

"No  dog — no  fowl — I  no  can  say.  They  got  somet'ing  in 
here,  and  here,  like  you,  like  me, ' '  tapping  his  breast  and  fore- 
head. These  two  denizens  of  earth  and  air  have  met  with 
and  grown  to  us  with  all  there  is  in  them  of  common  likeness 
of  entity. 

We  are  hove  to  ' '  under  a  bright  and  starry  sky, ' '  but  there 
is  no  sight  nor  sound  of  land. 


Wednesday,  September  16,  1908. 

This  is  my  day  to  feel  dumpy  and  dull,  with  neuralgia  in 
the  head  to  enliven  the  dulness.  But  Martin,  Nakata,  Peggy 
and  Cockee  have  brightened,  and  Tehei  is  glad  to  return  to 
deck  duty.  Henry  replenished  the  board  with  a  baby  shark 
and  a  fine  bonita.  The  heat  of  the  clear  day  calls  to  mind 
that  we  are  nearer  the  Equator  by  a  presumable  two  degrees 
or  so — although  Jack  declared  in  the  morning  that  he  might 
be  several  degrees  north  of  the  Line  for  all  he  knew !  But  he 
was  able  to  take  a  perfect  noon  observation,  and  steered  for 
the  latitude  of  Lord  Howe.  At  six  in  the  afternoon,  he  told 
us  he  figured  we  were  about  seventeen  miles  from  the  island. 


September  17,  1908. 

This  afternoon  the  engine  was  set  going,  and,  with  perfect 
trade-wind  weather  assisting,  we  surged  due  south.  The  sea 
was  like  dark-blue  crinkled  satin,  and  sun  and  wind  freshened 
the  boat  and  all  on  it  with  new  life.  I  climbed  up  on  a  shroud 
and  let  the  flowing  liquid  breeze  blow  through  me  as  it  seemed, 
and  was  possessed  with  an  enchanted  sense  of  detachment  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  441 

the  illimitability  of  the  cloud-land  and  the  world  of  water. 
Solid  land  does  not  exist  in  such  exaltations. 

Henry  and  Tehei,  as  the  sunset  wore,  kept  insisting  that  we 
were  near  land — perhaps  they  smelled  it  unconsciously;  and 
we  were  taking  one  last  sweep  of  the  waving  purple  horizon, 
when  Tehei,  who  had  gone  aloft,  screamed  like  a  child : 

"Lan*  ho!" 

We  could  not  see  it  from  the  deck,  but  Henry  climbed  up 
and  verified  the  glorious  find,  while  Jack  noted  the  bearings, 
west  by  south,  one-half  south.  The  grand  little  Snark  hove 
to  beautifully,  even  working  to  wind'ard  a  little  under  stay- 
sail, jib,  and  mizzen.  Jack  glowed  at  the  excellent  per- 
formance— " The  old  girl— eh?" 

Our  immediate  joy  was  short-lived,  and  a  small  but  real 
grief  fell  upon  us  all.  The  lovable  cockatoo,  who  had  rallied 
in  the  forenoon,  had  been  wilting  perceptibly,  and  it  was 
plain  that  the  only  kindness  would  be  to  end  his  misery.  But 
who  was  to  do  it  ?  Martin,  whose  bird  he  was,  backed  down 
with  a  sick  face;  Tehei  begged  off,  with  tears;  Nakata  said, 
"I'd  rather  not,"  and  Jack,  with  misty  eyes  looking  at  the 
poor  thing  caressing  his  hand  with  its  gentle  crest,  said  to 
Henry : 

"I'll  do  it,  Henry,  if  no  one  else  will,  because  it  must  be 
done ;  but  how  do  you  feel  about  it  ? " 

Henry,  grave  and  concerned,  came  up  nobly: 

"I  no  like,  Mr.  London.  .  .  .  But  I  do  for  you.  Give 
here." 

The  last  sound  our  pretty  white  pet  ever  uttered  was  when 
I  took  his  broken  body  for  a  moment  and  laid  it  against 
my  neck. 

"Cock-ee/'  he  said  in  the  shadow  of  his  sweet  and  whee- 
dling tone  that  ended  in  a  little  rasp. — Just  a  wisp  of  sentient 
down,  he  was,  with  a  modicum  of  plucky  spirit;  but  he  left 
his  mark  on  us  all,  and  we  separated  very  quietly  and  mourn- 
fully for  the  night. 


442  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Lua-Nua  (Lord  Howe,  or  Ongtong  Java  Atoll), 
Friday,   September  18,   1908. 

Not  only  are  we  rocking  at  anchor  after  eight  days  in  an 
apparently  chartless  void,  but  we  are  encompassed  by  our 
first  atoll,  albeit  this  rosy  coral  ring  is  so  big  we  cannot  see 
the  far  low  side  of  it.  A  one  hundred  and  fifty  mile  hoop 
gives  a  brave  diameter. 

Hove  to,  we  drifted  S.S.W.  during  the  night,  at  five  o'clock 
set  sail  north,  and  shortly  sighted  land  again,  three  miles  to 
west'ard.  But  just  when  a  good  position  had  been  attained 
for  the  reef  opening,  a  succession  of  squalls  overtook  us,  and 
we  dared  not  risk  an  entrance  that  could  not  be  seen;  so 
Jack  hove  to  the  obedient  little  ship  until  the  watery 
swift  tempest  abated,  when  he  put  me  at  the  wheel, 
Martin  at  the  engine,  and  Henry  aloft,  and  we  raced  through 
the  swirling  passage  into  the  choppy  sea  of  a  fresh  squall. 
From  outside  we  had  glimpsed  two  white  cutters  across  the 
line  of  reef,  but  the  first  craft  to  reach  us  was  a  welcome 
outrigger  canoe,  the  sight  of  which  filled  our  cannibal-cau- 
tious souls  with  sense  of  rest  and  security ;  while  Henry  and 
Tehei  gurgled  and  glowed  with  delight  and  anticipation, 
eager  from  their  hearts  to  find  if  they  and  the  gentle-faced, 
tattooed  strangers  (who,  by  the  way,  were  of  much  smaller 
stature)  could  speak  a  common  tongue.  They  could,  al- 
though with  various  garnishments  borrowed  from  their  own 
slight  strain  from  the  southerly ;  and  we  white  ones  met  them 
with  beche  de  mer  and  our  mild  mixture  of  Polynesian  patois 
— while  Nakata's  language,  all  his  own  combination,  was 
entirely  adequate.  As  soon  as  we  looked  into  the  inquisitive 
but  friendly  faces  of  the  three  paddlers,  came  the  realisation 
how  little  affection  we  had  learned  for  the  western  breeds — 
our  feeling  for  the  people  of  Melanesia  was  one  of  fascinated 
interest,  but  developed  no  ties  such  as  now  pulled  when  these 
dusky  men  of  Lua-Nua  clambered  over-rail.  One,  a  benevo- 
lent middle-aged  fellow  with  a  tuft  of  curly  hair  over  each 
ear  and  a  straggling  beard  touched  with  grey,  seemed  to  be  a 
personage. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  443 

' '  How  do  ? — Me  fella  Bob.  I  pilot — I  take  you  Lua-Nua — 
right  0.  I  like  you — any  amount." 

' '  Any  amount "  is  a  favourite  expression  of  old  Bob 's,  and 
it  is  infinitely  entertaining  to  hear  his  musical  husky  voice 
saying,  "My  word!"  " Right  0!"  and  other  exclamations 
gleaned  from  English  and  Australian  traders. 

Old  Bob 's  two  companions  took  our  breath  away  with  their 
beauty — princes  of  youth,  heads  a-toss  with  sun-touched 
ringlets,  eyes  sweet  and  long-lashed,  and  mouths  fine  and 
small,  curling  lovably  over  white  small  teeth. 

Bob,  after  the  exchange  of  greetings,  became  very  im- 
portant in  his  role  of  pilot,  and,  with  austere  face  and 
solemn  arm-weavings  in  the  mist,  warded  off  the  rain;  the 
young  princes  the  while  reciting  measures  of  warning  incanta- 
tion to  the  gods  of  ill  weather.  We  were  thus  poetically 
guided  to  an  anchorage  near  the  village,  which  lies  snug 
under  beautiful  tufted  palms. 

These  people  are  in  one  respect  like  the  bird  family.  Their 
beauty  is  mostly  vested  in  the  males.  When  we  came  to 
observe  the  girls  and  women,  there  was  no  comparison,  and 
they  were  still  further  set  at  disadvantage  by  cropped  skulls, 
one  of  several  un-pretty  Melanesian  customs  that  have  crept 
in. 

Harold  Markham,  trader  for  the  Company,  a  husky  sailor- 
built  blond  Australian,  had  started  out  in  his  cutter  through 
a  smaller  passage,  but  lost  us  in  the  wet  gusts  that  blotted 
out  everything.  He  now  followed  in  the  way  we  had  come, 
and,  among  other  things,  recounted  how  the  big  schooner 
Malakula,  on  her  last  trip,  entirely  missed  the  opening  and 
had  to  enter  forty  miles  away,  at  the  next  entrance. 
Markham  took  us  ashore,  where,  in  his  neat  high-pillared 
house,  the  first  notable  incident  was  the  meeting  of  Peggy 
with  a  good-humoured,  lumbering,  white  bull-pup.  Our 
patently  inadequate  terrier  advanced  stalkingly  on  thin,  stiff- 
stilted  legs,  her  back  ruffed  like  a  wild  boar's,  and  when  the 
unsuspecting  bull  tipped  her  over  at  the  first  friendly  on- 
slaught, she  came  up  in  a  still  frenzy  of  outraged  dignity, 


444  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

lips  tight-snarled,  and  stood  over  the  abject  flattened  white- 
jelly  puppy  with  blood-curdling  growls  of  menace. 

"The  big  bull  has  no  chance  altogether,"  chuckled 
Markham. 

Next,  we  met  the  lady  of  his  choice  of  Lua-Nuans,  a  healthy, 
beaming  bronze  girl  of  seventeen  or  so,  of  whom  he  is  un- 
affectedly proud  and  fond.  He  explained  frankly  the  un- 
faceable  loneliness  of  a  life  like  his,  at  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  how  happy  ' '  I  and  my  wife ' '  are  together ;  planned  trips 
with  her  to  other  islands  in  leaves  of  absence ;  and,  dropping 
into  her  vernacular  for  a  moment,  accompanying  his  words 
with  free  pantomime,  he  laughingly  translated  her  pleased 
exclamations  over  the  pretties  he  was  promising.  It  did 
give  me  a  queer  little  start,  though,  when,  with  the  most  un- 
embarrassed air  in  the  world,  he  told  how  he  had  paid  ten 
gold  sovereigns  to  the  parents  for  their  daughter,  who,  he 
added  with  utmost  childlike  pride,  was  of  high  degree. 

"An'  she's  a  sight  better  off  with  me — right  as  rain,"  he 
confided.  ' '  You  '11  soon  notice  she 's  entirely  deaf  in  one  ear, 
an'  the  other  side  nearly  so.  The  vahines  would  plague  her, 
but  as  my  wife  she's  protected  from  all  that — my  word!  I 
should  say  so. — Also,  a  woman  that  can 't  hear  don 't  talk  one 
to  death,  and  she  can't  squabble  with  the  other  vahines, 
either. — An'  she  don't  take  to  clothes  at  all,"  he  went  on, 
with  charming  naivete.  "All  she  wants  is  a  new  fathom  of 
gay  calico  an'  a  change  of  beads  ...  an'  soap:  she's  daffy 
over  soap.  "Whenever  I  don't  see  her  around,  I  only  need 
look  under  the  shower  I  fixed  outside  there  on  the  veranda, 
an '  she 's  there  latherin '  herself  from  head  to  foot. ' ' 

The  modest  young  matron,  with  not  a  stitch  above  the 
waist  and  only  a  scarlet-patterned  pareu  below,  smiled  con- 
tentedly and  affectionately  at  her  lord,  as  his  gestures  told 
her  the  matter  of  his  monologue. 

The  whole  spirit  of  the  situation  was  so  clean,  orderly,  and 
natural,  that  I  decided  I  was  having  the  oddest,  maddest, 
merriest  time  of  all  our  "Snarking"  in  the  unswept  corners 
of  earth,  and  planned  no  end  of  good  fun  with  the  girl  when 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  445 

I  could  get  her  aboard  to  surprise  her  bright  eyes  with  gar- 
ments such  as  she  had  never  seen,  and,  perhaps,  dress  her  up 
as  one  would  a  new  doll.  There  is  no  danger  of  bankrupting 
Markham  by  my  foolishness,  because  I  find  these  primitive 
minds  grasp  but  a  bit  at  a  time,  and  are  shocked  into  only 
the  briefest  interest  in  things  complicated.  I  would  back 
the  speed  of  Peggy's  reasoning  against  that  of  a  large  per- 
centage of  these  natives.  And,  if  a  dog's  logic  reaches  its 
limit  at  a  given  period,  so  does  the  savage 's.  One  thing  more 
than  reconciles  me  to  my  inability  to  adopt  Fakamam — they 
tell  me  that  the  average  maid  of  Melanesia  reaches  her  apogee 
of  mental  development  somewhere  along  in  her  mid-teens, 
and  is  a  burden  thereafter. 

The  third  and  last  member  of  Markham 's  household  is  a 
mild-faced  Solomon  Island  cook,  who,  despite  his  deceptive 
weak  prettiness,  is  deservedly  serving  an  aggregation  of  sen- 
tences that  cover  eight  years,  for  murders,  escapes  in  hand- 
cuffs, thefts  of  whaleboats — a  history  of  bloodcurdling 
crimes  and  reprisals  too  long  to  go  in  here,  but  which  so 
tickles  Jack's  fancy  that  he  intends  making  a  short  story  of 
it,  to  be  called  "Mauki,"  and  including  it  in  his  collection 
South  Sea  Tales. 

There  was  quite  a  gathering  around  the  tiny  compound 
when  we  came  out  for  a  walk,  gracefully  formed,  gracefully 
moving  men  and  women,  and  a  tumble  of  cherubic  kiddies. 
Among  them  we  saw  two  or  three  albinos.  They  were  rather 
weird  and  ghastly — white  human  beings  on  the  face  of  it, 
and  yet  not  white.  Their  eyes  were  not  pink,  but  very  faded, 
and  their  pinky-white  skins  blotched  with  light  freckles. 
The  hair  was  almost  white. 

"We  found  there  were  two  villages  instead  of  one,  at  some 
little  distance  apart.  No  maiden  may  cross  from  her  village 
to  the  other,  except  to  marry;  and  it  is  compulsory  to  wed 
men  of  the  opposite  community.  Even  with  this  precaution 
fairly  close  inbreeding  must  obtain,  for  there  are  but  five 
thousand  inhabitants  on  the  entire  coral  circle. 

It  was  sheer  bliss  to  pad  along  the  soft  pathways  under 


446  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

thick  palms,  all  in  a  green-golden  atmosphere,  and  be  accosted 
courteously  and  unaffectedly  by  a  beautiful  race  with  whom 
smiles  are  currency  and  love  the  password.  Into  the  lofty 
gloom  of  the  king's  house  we  were  ushered,  and  there  pre- 
sented with  grave  pomp  to  a  man  who  lost  none  of  his  magnif- 
icence because  he  was  not  great  of  stature.  Henry  and 
Tehei,  six  feet  in  bare  soles,  seemed  gentle  giants  loom- 
ing in  the  cocoanut-scented  twilit  spaces.  A  small  fire 
burned  in  the  centre,  sending  up  an  aromatic  smoke.  The 
rest  of  the  large  floor  was  covered  with  coarse,  clean  mats, 
while  finer  ones  were  laid  for  us  by  the  hands  of  the  king's 
two  wives.  Children  flitted  about,  lovely  curly-pated  cupids. 
We  duly  submitted  our  offering  of  tobacco,  with  bead  neck- 
lets and  bracelets  for  the  "queens,"  and  in  true  Polynesian 
spirit  a  return  was  ready  to  hand — a  shark's  jaws,  with  row 
upon  row  of  jagged  teeth. 

As  our  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  half-light,  the  beauty 
of  the  king  shone  out  more  and  more ;  and  in  the  corners  and 
mid-distances  of  the  interior,  groups  were  disposed,  leaning, 
crouching,  sitting,  standing,  in  lovely  unconscious  composi- 
tions, while  the  doorways  framed  sweet  faces  with  tumbled 
curls  that  were  touched  with  the  gilt  of  afternoon  sunlight. 
The  forms  seemed  perfect,  with  skins  of  satin,  unhidden  save 
for  small  loincloths,  and  the  men  moved  like  actors,  deliber- 
ately, unhurriedly,  with  calm,  sure  eyes  in  which  there  was 
no  boldness.  The  colour  of  their  tattooed  skins  is  variously 
bronze  and  copper,  but  many  rub  in  a  yellow  oil  with  a  certain 
leaf  that  turns  them  a  greenish  hue  which  is  less  unpleasant 
than  curious — like  the  mellow  greening  that  copper  and 
bronze  attain. 

On  returning  to  the  yacht,  we  found  Bob  had  already 
drummed  up  trade  for  us,  and  before  the  blue  and  silver 
sunset  I  had  filled  a  large  fine-woven  basket-bag,  the  gift  of 
Mr.  Caulfeild,  with  turtle  ornaments,  string  upon  string  of 
' '  money, ' '  and  wide  girdles  made  of  ' '  money, ' '  both  shell  and 
cocoanut  wood,  and  an  assortment  of  shells,  the  most  impor- 
tant ones  being  two  "orange-cowries"  of  splendid  colour, 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  447 

rare  and  much  coveted  by  collectors,  who  pay  for  them  in 
Sydney  five  pounds  a  pair.  There  were  little  tiaras  of  shark- 
teeth,  with  tie-strings  of  sennit,  and,  to  Jack's  delight,  some 
fine  specimens  of  whale-teeth.  The  fans  submitted  were 
exactly  like  those  in  Samoa.  . 

' '  Man-fowl  and  woman-fowl  he  stop, ' '  Bob  introduced  the 
chickens,  a  man-fowl  bringing  about  eight  and  a  half  cents 
to  its  owner,  and  the  woman-fowl  a  little  more,  what  of  her 
capacity  for  "  pickaninny  he  stop  along  woman-fowl  too 
much." 

September  19,  1908. 

Jack  says  "Lucky  we  were  not  at  sea  last  night,"  for  it 
blew  worse  than  any  time  in  the  Snark's  history.  It  was 
quite  rough  enough  inside,  and  one  of  the  blackest  nights  in 
our  experience.  The  sky  seemed  to  press  down.  But  it  was 
not  so  black  in  the  early  evening  as  Martin  adjudged.  He 
came  up  from  the  lighted  cabin  and  gazed  overside.  * '  My ! 
I  never  saw  it  so  black ! "  he  said.  Jack  and  I,  who  were  al- 
ready on  deck  and  our  eyes  better  focused,  began  to  laugh, 
for  within  six  inches  of  Martin's  face  hung  a  pair  of  heavy 
blue-flannel  bloomers  of  mine,  winter  wear  put  out  to  'air. 

Our  men-fowl  crowed  me  awake  before  five,  and  a  rainy 
forenoon  was  not  specially  inspiriting.  But  the  pleasant, 
eager  traders  'livened  things,  and  I  became  possessed  of  three 
new  clam-pearls.  Jack  turned  some  small  iron  puzzles  over 
to  the  visitors,  who  were  like  a  lot  of  holiday  children,  bobbing 
their  ringlets  and  crying  over  and  over :  ' '  Ah  he  he !  Ah  he 
he !  Ah  he  he ! "  "  Wow-ow-ow!  Wow-ow-ow!"  and  laugh- 
ing heartily  with  me  at  my  amusement. 

The  Tongan  Wesleyan  missionary,  Mr.  Nau,  with  his  wife 
and  daughter,  and  his  Tongan  associate,  Mr.  Bolgar,  paid  us 
a  call — big,  gracious  Polynesian  love  people,  all  of  them, 
with  whom  Henry  and  Tehei  were  overjoyed  to  talk.  Tehei 
has  been  under  the  weather  all  day  with  headache,  but  we 
cannot  discover  any  fever. 

Peggy,  still  uncertain  on  her  off  hind-leg,  took  another  fall, 


448  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

and  lamed  the  nigh  fore-leg,  so  that  she  is  neither  seaman- 
like  nor  silent  in  her  meanderings.  But  meander  she  will,  as 
long  as  any  brown-skinned  human  stranger  is  aboard  her 
ship,  although  she  seems  to  divine  the  difference,  undoubtedly 
from  her  association  with  our  two  Polynesians,  between  the 
Lua-Nuans  and  the  burly,  Semitic-faced  Solomons. 

Jack  is  a  bit  shaky  with  fever,  and  a  peculiar  swelling 
has  appeared  in  his  hands,  the  sensation  being  similar  to 
chilblains.  It  hurts  him  to  close  them,  and  the  skin  peels  off 
in  patches,  with  other  skins  readily  forming  and  peeling 
underneath.  I  do  not  believe  his  nervous  system  was  ever 
made  to  thrive  in  the  tropics. 

.  .  .  Just  now,  as  I  write  in  bed,  there  came  a  fluttering  of 
wings,  distinct  through  the  ripping  of  thunder,  against  the 
ventilator,  and  Jack,  roused  out  of  his  first  drowse,  dropped 
from  his  bunk  and  went  up  in  the  rain  expecting  to  find  a 
bat.  Instead,  his  hands  encountered  a  white  bird  that  had 
stunned  itself  on  the  rigging.  He  straightened  it  out,  and 
it  presently  flew  away.  When  Jack  came  down  again,  he 
put  a  damp  and  towelled  head  through  our  tiny  doorway 
and  blinked  smiling  at  me : 

"It's  a  royal  life  we  lead,  isn't  it?  There's  nothing  in 
the  world  to  equal  it ! ' ' 

September  20,  1908. 

Tehei  has  fever  at  last,  and  is  very  languidly  and  pallidly 
interested  in  himself  and  his  symptoms,  with  a  sweet  smile 
watching  Nakata  pull  together  and  return  to  the  galley.  It  is 
now  three  weeks  since  my  last  attack;  and  Jack's  threatening 
state  yesterday  proved  only  a  slight  cold. 

Markham  brought  his  lady-love  aboard,  and  I  dressed  her 
up  in  stays  and  lingerie  and  an  evening  gown  and  sent  her  on 
deck,  to  the  huge  entertainment  of  the  men.  But  it  was  as  I 
thought — beyond  the  gift  of  some  scented  toilet  soap,  a  string 
of  beads,  and  a  gay  pareu,  she  was  not  at  all  covetous — 
although  I  have  a  suspicion  that  steady  association  with  a 
certain  huge  powder-puff  would  tempt  her. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  449 

Ashore  in  the  afternoon,  we  were  treated  to  a  big  dance, 
called  "sing-sing."  The  women  hula'd  in  dresses  of  grass 
and  leaves  and  gay  calico,  and  a  bevy  of  naked  girl-babies 
mingled,  dancing  amorously  with  unwitting  faces,  tiny 
point-fingered  hands  on  swaying  hips,  while  King  Kepea  and 
his  councillors  watched  us  to  see  how  we  took  it;  for  they 
seem  to  have  gathered  a  notion,  probably  from  the  enlightened 
Tongans,  that  the  hula  is  not  a  white  man's  dance.  One 
cross-eyed  infant,  girdled  in  flowers,  danced  herself  into  a 
frenzy  of  contortions  of  body  and  plump  limbs,  until  her 
mother  caught  her  up  amidst  shrieks  of  laughter  from  every- 
body, and  held  her  kicking  on  high. 

The  incongruity  of  actions  among  these  simple  folk  (who 
are  far  more  comely  and  gracious  than  the  general  run  of 
one's  white  acquaintances),  when  they  become  absorbed  in 
trivial  and  childish  affairs,  is  rather  rude  on  one's  imagina- 
tion. We  had  brought  a  half  sack  of  sweet  potatoes  for  His 
Majesty,  and  a  big  square  tin  of  assorted  "lollies,"  and  the 
handsome  chief  kept  a  keen  and  frequent-dropping  eye  and 
hand  on  these  treasures — as  did  some  of  his  court  who  sat 
around  on  hand-wrought  four-legged  stools  of  hard  wood. 
And  /  had  my  eye  on  the  king's  seat,  which  was  the  best  of 
the  lot,  and  which  I  intended  to  possess  sooner  or  later.  The 
dignified  and  graceful  acceptance  by  the  lofty-miened  prime 
ministers  (Bob  among  them),  of  a  single  potato  or  a  sticky 
handful  of  lollies,  sorely  tried  our  gravity.  Some  inimitable 
young  prince,  flaunting  his  love-locks  in  the  sun,  made  bash- 
ful eyes  at  us  behind  a  slanting  palm,  until  he  was  beckoned 
to  come  up  and  receive  a  fistful  of  the  garish-coloured  dainties 
— at  which  a  coquettish  hoyden  swayed  close  to  him  from  a 
dance  figure,  snatched  his  prize  and  broke  into  a  run,  he 
after  her,  and  both  laughing  shrilly.  There  were  practically 
no  dances  new  to  us,  even  the  "jumping  widows"  of  Taiohae 
being  represented  by  various  vahines  who  bumped  stiffly  up 
and  down  in  the  midst  of  a  weaving  circle. 

Old  Bob  was  general  of  affairs,  and  fearfully  important. 
When  the  entertainment  waned,  he  called  our  attention  to  a 


450  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

half  dozen  fowls  lying  bound  beside  the  king,  who  looked 
uneasy,  as  if  he  were  afraid  we  might  depart  before  he  could 
get  something  off  his  mind.  And  then  his  high  Majesty 
majestically  suggested  that  we  buy  his  six  "woman-fowl"! 
The  descent  from  sublime  to  ridiculous  was  so  abrupt  that 
Jack  and  I  stood  open-mouthed  for  an  instant,  and  Martin 
made  an  actual  shy  away  from  the  august  presence.  "Well, 
what  do  you  know  about  that!"  he  breathed — "well — I'm  a 
son  of  a  seacook!"  (Martin's  words  often  contain  the  spirit 
if  not  the  sound  of  his  emotions.) 

Oh,  we  bought  the  chickens,  never  fear;  and  as  the  ele- 
gancies of  our  language  are  not  understood  here,  Jack's  genial 
and  respectful  ' '  Good-bye,  you  old  robber ! ' '  and  my  ' '  Fare- 
well, you  magnificent  skinflint ! ' '  carried  nothing  but  pleasure 
and  sense  of  well-being  to  the  soul  of  the  sovereign.  Henry 
looked  aghast  at  our  temerity;  but  as  nothing  fell  from 
heaven,  and  as  not  even  the  astute  Bob  suspicioned  the  mock 
homage,  our  big  Rapa  Islander  smiled  his  whimsical  three- 
cornered  smile  and  chuckled  all  the  way  to  the  beach.  Henry 
hasn't  spent  most  of  his  years  on  white  men's  boats  without 
learning  a  bit  of  their  humour.  He  was  about  to  toss  me  over 
his  great  shoulder  (he  has  relegated  to  himself  the  duty  of 
passing  "Missis"  high  and  dry  from  beach  to  boat  and  vice 
versa),  when  a  hubbub  arose  ashore,  and  there  was  an  exodus 
of  the  crowd  across  the  belt  of  land.  Something  was  up,  and 
we  joined  the  rush,  praying  against  hope  that  we  might  be 
about  to  witness  the  drawing  ashore  of  a  lost  canoe  drifted 
from  some  far  palmy  isle.  This  drift  peopled  Lord  Howe 
and  Tasman,  Bellona  and  Rennel,  and  at  long  intervals,  still 
other  canoes  are  cast  up.  Sometimes  the  voyagers  are  all 
dead — we  are  possessed  of  several  spears  from  such  a  funeral 
canoe  that  was  once  washed  on  the  reef.  But  think  of  the 
meeting  when  the  strays  from  fabled  lands  are  still  breathing, 
and  are  welcomed  and  resuscitated  by  their  saviours !  It  was 
not  to  be  that  we  should  gaze  upon  such  a  scene ;  far  from  it, 
what  we  saw  was  a  steamer  plying  slowly  outside  the  reef 
toward  an  opening  farther  west,  and  Markham  told  us  it  was 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  451 

the  Sumatra — smallest  of  the  North  German  Lloyd  fleet, 
which  makes  more  or  less  regular  trips  among  the  German 
islands  for  copra  and  to  bring  stores ;  and  he  said  we  would 
take  a  run  down  to  her  in  the  cutter  to-morrow,  with  our 
mail,  as  she  does  not  like  to  come  to  the  shallower  waters  at 
this  end. 

On  our  walk  to-day,  we  found  the  breadth  of  this  coral 
band  to  be  not  more  than  three  hundred  yards  at  the  widest, 
and  could  realise  how  easy  it  must  have  been  for  the  first 
white  men  who  came  here  to  subjugate  the  natives.  Although 
in  the  main  descendants  of  a  purely  Polynesian  drift  from 
the  eastward,  they  had  a  leaven  from  an  occasional  Melanesian 
contribution  in  the  season  of  the  northwest  monsoon,  and 
were  hostile  to  white  invaders.  They  fought  well  and 
bravely,  but  learned  their  bloody  and  heartbreaking  lesson, 
and  the  entire  population  of  the  atoll  is  as  peaceable  as  we 
see  them  here.  The  story  of  their  trimming  by  the  "inevi- 
table white  man"  is  so  stirring  that  Jack  will  add  it  also  to 
his  collection,  calling  it  ' l  Yah !  Yah !  Yah ! ' '  which  was  the 
gleeful  slogan  of  one  of  the  reckless  white  mariners  who  took 
an  important  hand  in  the  trimming. 

Owing  to  bad  weather,  we  had  not  been  tempted  much 
inshore  since  our  arrival,  and  now  took  occasion  to  examine 
the  Lua-Nua  cemetery — the  most  remarkable  thing  in  its 
way  that  we  have  ever  come  across — itself  worth  a  voyage  to 
this  great  atoll,  which,  in  spite  of  contiguity  and  control, 
belongs  to  the  Solomons  neither  geographically  nor  ethno- 
logically. 

This  burial  ground,  wandering  along  for  some  distance,  is 
really  very  beautiful,  although  it  is  hard  to  say  exactly  why, 
for  it  is  comparable  to  nothing  in  the  world.  Through  the 
emerald-green  forest  of  luxuriant  palms,  you  come  upon 
what  most  nearly  resembles  a  miniature  ruined  city  all  in 
white  coral,  tipped  and  decorated  with  rose-red  pigment — a 
little  Pompeii  with  painted  walls  and  silent  streets.  The 
buildings  are  rows  of  tombstones,  the  graves  are  covered  with 
fine  white  coral  sand,  and  widows  and  widowers  sweep  these 


452  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

graves  regularly  every  day  for  hours,  over  periods  that  en- 
dure according  to  the  devotion  of  the  bereft.  Once  I  acci- 
dentally stepped  on  a  square  of  wood  lying  in  the  way. 
Markham's  girl  drew  me  aside  quickly.  "Make,"  she  whis- 
pered— the  Hawaiian  word  for  "dead." 

The  "widowers'  (and  widows')  houses"  stand  at  intervals 
on  the  other  side  of  a  sort  of  avenue  running  parallel  with  the 
city  of  the  dead,  and  we  saw  the  mourners  (more  women  than 
men)  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  what  looked  to  be  literally  sack- 
cloth, of  an  ashen  and  dusty  dunness.  They  answered  our 
i '  alohas ' '  with  most  unbecoming  cheer  and  merriment. 

We  passed  several  turtle-pools — small  dark  holes  criss- 
crossed with  logs,  in  which  the  captives  slowly  grow  new 
houses  for  their  backs  after  the  harvest  of  shell  has  been 
cruelly  ripped  off. 

In  some  of  the  homes  we  visited,  sweet-faced  vahines  gave 
me  presents — bead-necklaces  and  bracelets,  and  fans.  I  had 
my  own  pockets  and  Jack's  full  of  pretty  trade  articles,  and 
made  them  happy  in  return. 

During  the  latter  part  of  our  stroll,  Peggy  disappeared, 
and  I  reached  Markham's  house  in  a  panic.  Markham  sent 
several  natives  to  look  for  her,  and  they  met  a  curly-headed 
youth  hastening  beachward  with  the  puppy,  who,  when  her 
eyes  lighted  on  us,  went  into  a  perfectly  feminine  hysteria. 
A  ship 's  dog,  unused  to  regular  exercise,  is  very  likely  to  run 
amuck  when  it  discovers  endless  pathways  for  the  chasing. 

September  22,  1908. 

At  nine  yesterday  we  started  with  Markham  in  his  cutter 
with  the  impossibly  huge  sail  and  absurdly  short  tiller,  and 
two  leaf-chapleted  sons  of  high  men  in  Lua-Nua,  Matukea 
and  Tunaka — beauties,  both  of  them,  in  face  and  form,  and 
as  stupid  of  wit  as  they  were  beautiful.  They  appeared  to 
have  no  judgment  whatever  in  handling  the  cutter,  and 
Markham  was  obliged  to  watch  them  every  minute  of  the 
thrilling  traverse.  No  use  scolding  them — they  only  look 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  453 

puzzled  and  grieved,  then  smile  irresistibly  with  a  flash  of 
teeth  and  dimples,  and  return  to  their  singing  and  de- 
claiming for  fair  weather. 

We  were  bound  for  the  station  Nuareber,  miles  away,  where 
the  Sumatra  was  anchored,  and  the  cutter  raced  along  like  an 
ice-boat  with  her  enormous  canvas  spread  to  the  squalls. 
Time  and  again  it  seemed  we  must  capsize,  and  Markham's 
cheering  assurance  that  there  were  only  fish  sharks  in  the 
lagoon  did  not  make  me  any  less  desirous  of  keeping  up  on 
the  windward  rail.  As  we  had  started  in  the  rain,  I  had  not 
changed  from  bloomers,  and  merely  added  an  oilskin  and  a 
pongee  parasol  for  sun  or  rain,  packing  a  skirt  with  Jack's 
inevitable  book  and  magazines.  There  was  quite  a  swell  as 
we  ranged  alongside  the  black  side  of  the  steamer,  and  I  en- 
tertained visions  of  courteous  Teutonic  officers  reaching  to 
help  the  white  lady  aboard.  A  couple  of  Black  Papuan 
sailors  looked  lazily  down  upon  us,  and  made  no  offer  to  as- 
sist. Jack  prepared  to  board  the  ship  in  order  to  give  me  a 
hand  up,  when  a  door  opened  and  two  immaculate  plump 
pink  Germans  looked  frowningly  out,  then,  to  our  amaze- 
ment, closed  the  door  again.  "What  are  we  to  them?"  Jack 
laughed,  landing  on  the  deck  at  the  next  rise  of  the  cutter. 
"Up  with  you! — they  took  you  for  a  boy." 

Markham  found  Captain  Miileitner,  and  soon  everything 
was  ours,  the  two  officers  profuse  with  apologies,  saying  they 
had  seen  only  the  native  boys  in  the  cutter.  We  gave  our 
mail  to  them,  for  the  Sumatra  expected  to  connect  with  an 
Australian  steamer  shortly.  Of  course,  with  our  delay  in 
reaching  Lord  Howe,  we  knew  we  should  miss  the  Makambo, 
and  now  planned  to  take  her  next  following  trip,  six  weeks 
later. 

We  had  a  capital  lunch  with  our  hosts,  the  captain  explain- 
ing in  his  broken  English  (not  beche  de  mer,  alas!)  the 
various  German  delicacies.  But  the  sauerkraut  and  noodles 
and  Pilsener  and  Rhine  wine  needed  no  interpretation,  and 
the  ship  was  able  to  spare  us  an  assortment  of  things  for  the 
Snark — sausages,  Camembert  cheeses,  sauerkraut,  fruits, 


454  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

cakes,  and  toothsome  potpourris  of  German  tidbits  in  gay 
tins.  We  were  served  by  slender  young  Chinese  with  refined 
faces  and  soft  manners,  and  beautiful  hands.  The  sailors, 
Black  Papuan  from  New  Britain,  were  blacker  than  any 
Solomon  Islanders,  and  we  could  not  but  compare  their  lean, 
asymetrical  bodies  and  round,  knobby,  sloping  shoulders  with 
our  shapely  cupids  on  the  cutter. 

After  lunch,  the  weather  being  fine,  with  an  untroubled 
lagoon,  Captain  Miileitner  announced  that  he  wanted  to  see 
the  Snark  and  would  take  us  back.  Jack  was  glad  of  this, 
especially  as  he  was  very  anxious  to  rate  our  chronometer. 
But  our  scheme  failed  early,  all  because  of  the  inability  of 
those  love-children  in  the  towing  cutter  to  steer  after  the 
Sumatra's  stern.  The  cutter  capsized,  and  was  dragged 
under,  coming  up  and  submerging  repeatedly  before  the 
steamer  could  be  stopped.  One  of  the  Lua-Nuans  went 
free  after  the  first  immersion ;  but  the  other,  as  if  from  sheer 
inability  to  let  go,  hung  on  to  the  stern  and  came  up  blowing 
prodigiously  each  time.  Fortunately  he  did  release  his  hold 
before  a  final  twist  drew  the  dismasted  cutter  clear  under  the 
Sumatra's  propeller.  We  saw  everything  in  the  clear  water 
— the  pretty  hull  sink  and  twist  beneath  and  then  float  to  the 
surface  on  the  other  side,  bottom  up.  The  boy  was  now 
astride  a  trade  chest,  with  other  litter  around  him,  including 
my  parasol,  his  eyes  bulging  with  fright,  while  his  com- 
panion swam  frantically  to  join  him.  And  presently,  hear- 
ing our  chorus  of  mirth  at  their  panic,  the  pair  were  laughing 
with  us  between  panting  breaths. 

The  loss  of  time  occasioned  by  the  accident  was  so  consid- 
erable that  the  captain  said  he  would  entertain  us  over  night 
instead  of  putting  us  aboard  the  Snark,  while  the  Sumatra 
went  on  with  her  business  and  Markham  got  the  cutter,  whose 
hull  was  intact,  in  shape  at  Nuareber.  We  spent  a  luxurious 
evening  lounging  in  hammocks  and  big  rattan  chairs  on  the 
long,  canopied  after  deck,  listening  to  a  variety  of  splendid 
operatic  records  on  a  big  phonograph.  Jack  slept  here,  along 
with  the  others ;  but  the  captain  insisted,  with  elaborate  bows, 


Guadalcanal 


The  Squall  off  Lord  Howe 


A  Cannibal  Venice 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  455 

that  "Frau  London"  occupy  his  stateroom,  a  large  and 
handsome  apartment,  well  stocked  with  firearms.  Mr.  Timm, 
chief  engineer,  sold  us  some  New  Britain  and  New  Guinea 
curios.  One  was  a  long  spear,  jagged  with  rows  of  sharks '- 
teeth,  encased  in  a  woven  sennit  sheath — a  very  choice  acqui- 
sition. He  told  us  stories  of  these  wild  countries  that  sent 
our  thoughts  far  beyond  the  trip  to  Sydney,  when  we  should 
return  to  join  the  Snark  and  fare  westward  again. 

At  nine  this  morning,  we  set  sail  for  the  Snark,  and  it  took 
six  long  hours  beating  to  windward  to  cover  the  distance  we 
had  sped  in  an  hour  the  day  before  in  the  running  cutter. 

Monday,   September  28,  1908. 

For  a  week  we  have  lain  here,  just  pleasuring  in  the  life, 
and  because  we  have  ample  time  on  our  hands.  Also,  and 
most  important,  Jack  has  been  lying  in  wait  for  observations, 
so  that  he  could  settle  the  little  matter  of  the  chronometer. 
He  has  tested  it  by  longitude  sights,  and  discovered  it  to  be 
something  like  three  minutes  out — a  very  grave  total  error, 
when  it  is  considered  that  each  minute  is  equivalent  to  fifteen 
miles.  By  repeated  observations,  he  rated  the  chronometer, 
finding  that  it  had  a  daily  losing  error  of  seven-tenths  of  a 
second.  Nearly  a  year  ago,  when  we  left  Hawaii,  the  thing 
had  the  same  losing  error.  That  error  was  always  added 
each  day,  and  has  not  changed,  according  to  these  Lord 
Howe  observations.  So  what  in  the  name  of  all  watch- 
makers made  our  chronometer  put  on  speed  and  catch  up 
with  itself  three  minutes  ?  There  is  no  explanation,  unless  it 
was  allowed  to  run  down  in  our  absence,  and  was  wound 
and  corrected  by  some  chronometer  at  Tulagi.  But  Martin 
stoutly  avers  that  nothing  of  the  kind  took  place.  It  is  very 
curious. 

Tehei,  frightened  by  his  fever,  begged  leave  to  spend  a 
couple  of  days  ashore  to  visit  and  pray  with  the  Tongan  mis- 
sionaries. He  came  back  more  optimistic,  but  is  very  self- 
centred  in  the  observation  of  symptoms.  I  once  had  a  male 


456  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

relative-by-marriage  who  eternally  searched  for  symptoms — 
and  found  them — so  that  he  was  always  ill  or  on  the  verge  of 
becoming  so.  Tehei  reminds  me  of  him. 

Jack's  hands  have  not  improved — in  fact,  he  is  sorely 
bothered  by  them — even  holding  a  pen  is  uncomfortable, 
and  a  pull  on  a  rope  is  positively  painful. 

Nakata,  flouting  all  symptoms,  although  he  has  not  been 
entirely  free  from  fever  for  some  time,  goes  about  the  cook- 
ing without  complaint,  and  many's  the  delicious  odour  that 
floats  out  from  his  galley — steaming  clam-meat  from  fluted 
marble  shells,  sizzling  small-fry  brought  by  the  natives, 
wholesome  boiling  or  frying  taro.  The  people  here  and  in 
the  Solomons  are  largely  tambo  in  respect  to  clam-meat,  as  a 
devil-devil  resides  therein.  So  we,  who  are  especially  fond 
of  it,  raw  or  cooked,  have  difficulty  in  obtaining  all  we  want. 
Henry  has  come  nobly  to  the  rescue,  with  indulgent  amuse- 
ment at  the  superstition  of  the  lesser  breeds,  and  dives  over- 
side when,  in  the  clear  brine,  we  locate  on  the  white  bottom, 
sixty  feet  below,  a  desirable  shell.  Slowly  filling  his  deep 
lungs,  he  leaves  the  rail  feet-first,  then,  well  under,  turns 
over  and  swims  down  leisurely,  as  leisurely  picks  up  the 
shell,  and  rises  very  slowly,  in  order  not  to  change  the  atmos- 
pheric pressure  too  abruptly,  which  is  the  cause  of  the  ter- 
rible "bends."  He  is  quietly  pleased  over  our  praise,  al- 
though he  knows  we  know  he  has  only  done  half  the  depth 
of  his  old-time  record.  Henry  hasn't  that  slightly  de- 
pressed chest  for  nothing. 

Jack  and  I  have  done  a  little  swimming  around  the  yacht, 
and  the  other  day,  while  he  was  resting  on  the  rail  with  a 
dripping  and  solicitous  Peggy  beside  him,  both  watching  me 
under  water,  he  saw  not  fifteen  feet  below  me  a  long  shape. 
Then  I  saw  it,  too — only  a  fish-shark  warranted  not  to  bite 
.  .  .  but  I  made  my  record  climb  up  the  gangway  ladder. 

I  do  not  feel  well  any  of  the  time — am  tired  and  listless; 
but  a  strange  elation  of  happiness  possesses  me,  and  all's 
well. 

Every  day  Bob,  who  affectionately  calls  me  "Mamma," 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  457 

and  assures  me  I  am  the  first  white  Mary  who  has  visited 
this  end  of  the  island,  comes  out  with  something  we  want, 
whether  tattoo-sticks  pointed  with  sharks  '-teeth,  or  strings  of 
little  carved-wood  cups,  wooden  or  stone  poi-pounders — fine 
specimens  from  the  Stone  Age  brought  here  by  the  canoe- 
drift  from  the  high  islands — or  broad  bead  girdles  of  gor- 
geous hues.  And  I  lie  on  a  cot  under  the  awning  and  listen 
dreamily  to  the  musical-husky  voices  and  the  soft  lapping  of 
little  waves  against  our  tumble-home  sides,  and  look  out 
across  the  warm  blues  of  the  lagoon  to  the  isle-dotted  pink 
reef,  and  am  just  .  .  .  happy. 

Or  at  night,  on  deck,  we  watch  the  searchlight  on  shore 
and  water,  fish  leaping  to  the  illumination,  screaming  terri- 
fied white  birds  fretting  the  brilliant  green  foliage,  while 
weird  cries  and  shouts  rise  from  the  villagers,  and  groups  of 
naked  brown  forms  dance  singing  on  the  gleaming  sand. 

One  evening  we  went  fishing  with  Markham  and  his  girl 
on  the  inside  reef  by  lantern  light.  There  had  been  an 
astounding  sunset,  crude  blue-and-pink  fanrays  out  of  a 
brazen  green-orange  horizon  band,  the  reef  islets  picked  out 
in  dead  black.  The  swift  passing  of  all  the  riot  of  rude 
colour  was  succeeded  by  a  purple  night-sky  spangled  with 
enormous  electric  stars,  low-hung;  and  as  we  glided  across 
the  warm  water,  down  out  of  a  sudden  blot  of  cloud  shot 
crackling  a  round  red  ball  that  died  through  red  and  rose  to 
pale  nothingness  ere  it  reached  the  sea.  A  ferine  chorus  of 
panic  yells  went  up  from  the  beach  at  the  meteorite,  and  two 
scarlet-cinctured,  curl-crowned  amphibians  in  our  canoe 
emitted  queer  little  guttural  cries  and  with  their  arms  wove 
magic  spells  against  devil-devils. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night.  Great  stars,  reflected  in  the 
lagoon,  made  a  strange  blue  light,  softened  by  fleecy  vagrant 
clouds  that  also  met  their  reflections  in  the  waveless  water. 
The  girl  beside  me  caressed  my  tired  body  and  limbs  with 
the  everlasting  blessing  of  lomi-lomi,  and  the  brown  prince- 
things  sang  and  laughed  in  undertones  at  their  fishing.  The 
water  was  so  quiet  that  we  could  see  by  the  starlight  the 


458  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

moony  gleam  of  the  sandy  bottom,  broken  with  grey  fanciful 
shapes  of  branching  coral.  A  low  groan  and  growl  from  the 
outer  surf  came  across  the  palmy  strand,  but  we  hung  mo- 
tionless in  a  magic  still  circle  swept  softly  by  perfumed  airs. 

.  .  .  And  to-morrow  we  hoist  anchor  for  Pelau,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  atoll,  thence  straight  north  for  indefinite 
two-score  miles  to  a  ring  of  reef  not  a  seventh  the  size  of 
this — Tasman,  or  Niumano  Atoll. 


At  sea,  Lord  Howe  to  Tasman, 
Friday,  October  2,  1908. 

To  the  south  Lord  Howe  has  sunk  beneath  a  waving  hori- 
zon of  cobalt  blue,  and  the  dear  old  bowsprit  is  questing 
northward  where  Tasman  lies  but  a  fraction  over  four  de- 
grees below  the  fervid  Line.  And  fervid  enough  it  is  aboard, 
despite  a  flowing  breeze. 

On  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the  29th,  we  sailed  for  Pelau 
accompanied  by  two  natives,  Kelango,  a  nephew  of  Bob's, 
and  Boonaa,  the  very  picture  of  an  Abyssinian.  The  two 
put  in  their  time  on  the  bowsprit,  guiding  us  among  the 
brilliant  coral  patches  in  the  rippling  lagoon. 

King  Kepea  rendered  a  farewell  largess  of  one  hundred 
young  drinking-cocoanuts,  and  that  coveted  four-legged 
"throne,"  which  shall  be  my  pet  footstool  some  day  in  our 
Wolf  House  on  Sonoma  Mountain.  He  also  sent  a  score  of 
fowls,  these,  as  we  had  come  to  learn,  to  be  paid  for. 

Mr.  Markham  came  out,  and  the  girl  was  a  sumptuous 
vision,  swathed  in  sky-blue  pareu  held  by  a  wide  blue- 
beaded  band  close  around  her  bronze  body  under  the  breasts. 
But  she  was  entirely  put  in  the  shade  when  there  hove  over- 
rail  our  friend  Bob,  who  had  spent  good  money  at  the  store 
on  a  coarse  white  cotton  chemise  (surmounted  by  an  em- 
broidered frill),  that  reached  below  his  lean  knees.  Imagine 
the  bewhiskered,  fuzz-tufted,  benevolent  old  fellow  in  this 
outrageous  rig,  stiff  with  pride  in  his  unimpeachable  cor- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  459 

rectness — and  our  struggle  not  to  shout  with  laughter.  And 
at  the  last,  tarrying  with  us  until  he  became  separated  from 
his  canoe,  he  dived  overside  and  rose  waving  a  lean  brown 
arm  out  of  its  embroidered  puff -sleeve,  before  he  struck  for 
shore  with  a  "Good-bye,  my  mamma!  Good-bye,  my 
friend!" 

Jack  trusted  Henry  with  the  wheel  and  went  below  to 
start  his  story  "Mauki,"  which  has  greatly  stirred  his  imag- 
ination. I  spent  most  of  the  day  fitting  up  our  tiny  state- 
rooms with  yielding  depths  of  fine  mats  on  the  floors, 
others  soft-folded  on  the  bunks,  and  rearranging  things  gen- 
erally. They  are  such  clean  comfort,  these  native  weaves, 
in  this  melting  temperature. 

At  5 :30,  with  an  hour  of  the  engine,  we  came  to  rest  in 
sixty  feet  of  green-crystal  water,  and  our  eyes  could  follow 
the  chain  link  by  link  to  where  the  anchor  hid  under  a  dull- 
blue  coral-hummock.  Rosy  rock-cod  and  dun  fish-sharks 
could  be  clearly  seen  hovering  in  the  shadows  cast  by  sea 
gardens  or  gliding  from  tree  to  tree  out  of  the  violet  glooms 
into  opalescent  sungleams  and  back  again,  and  large  beche 
de  mer  slugs  lay  like  blots  on  the  wavy  white  bottom. 

Before  the  natives  commenced  to  swarm  out,  Mr.  Bolgar 
(Mr.  Nau  and  he  had  preceded  us  to  Pelau)  paid  us  a  call, 
and  more  to  our  amusement  than  surprise  at  first,  warned  us 
against  the  natives,  whose  breeding  includes  a  streak  of 
Malayan  as  well  as  Melanesian.  "S'pose  you  frien's  look 
out  along  Queenslander  fella,"  he  explained.  This  we  per- 
fectly understood,  as  the  presence  of  a  "returned  Queens- 
lander"  would  make  us  keep  an  eye  out  for  at  least  small 
failings,  although  nothing  worse  in  this  safe  environment. 

There  is  not  a  white  face  in  Pelau,  and  we  quickly  com- 
prehended the  variance  of  the  people  from  those  at  the  other 
end.  No  lovely  youths  here — these  were  very  like  Solomon 
Islanders  in  shape  and  feature,  although  as  elaborately  if 
not  as  finely  tattooed  as  any  Samoan.  All  over  their  faces 
the  patterns  stray,  and  it  makes  one's  flesh  creep  to  look  at 
heavy  designs  on  the  tender  skin  under  their  eyes,  so 


460  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

exquisite  must  have  been  the  torture  of  the  artist's  handi- 
work. The  children  are  well  sketched  on  their  little  chests, 
and  childless  wives  and  the  men  wear  irregular  knicker- 
bockers of  intricate  drawing.  Some  of  them  had  "  fella 
muskets"  limned  on  their  satiny  torsos. 

Early  next  morning  the  roar  of  surf  outside  roused  me, 
and  I  dived  for  a  cool  swim  with  Jack  before  breakfast,  as 
the  sharks  really  seemed  to  stay  on  bottom  near  the  fish. 
Imagine  lying  face-downward  on  the  tepid  beryl  floor  of 
water,  eyes  open  to  the  coral  groves  and  lazy-shifting  life  of 
the  lagoon,  and  trying  to  spy  a  hide-and-seek  anchor  at  the 
end  of  a  chain  that  partly  lies  in  irregular  lines  and  loose 
coils  in  the  slack  of  the  tide;  or,  coming  up  for  a  lung  of 
fresh  air,  leisurely  swimming  under  the  beloved  copper  hull 
of  your  boat,  and  turning  face-up  to  look  at  her  iron  keel 
before  rising  on  the  other  side.  It  is  all  so  indolent-easy. 
If  Jack  and  I  did  everything  in  the  tropics  as  moderately 
as  we  live  in  the  water,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  there  would 
be  little  sickness  for  us. 

A  strange  canoe  with  upright  carved  ends  ranged  along- 
side while  we  were  having  our  fresh-laid  breakfast-eggs  on 
deck,  her  paddlers  equally  strange — two  Mongolian-faced 
men  under  broad  Chinese  hats.  One  of  them  submitted  a 
large,  perfectly  round  clam  pearl,  at  which  I  tried  not  to 
look  too  possessively,  for  he  held  it  at  a  price  that  would 
have  commanded  a  true  oyster  pearl.  Jack  advised :  ' '  Let 
him  wait  a  day  or  two — he'll  find  his  mistake  and  come 
down."  But  he  never  could  be  convinced  that  it  was  not  a 
proper  "poe"  (Tahitian  for  pearl),  and  we  sailed  without 
it,  as  I  preferred  to  hoard  the  price  against  our  pearl-junket- 
ing in  Torres  Straits. 

Mr.  Nau  and  Mr.  Bolgar  sent  out  an  invitation  to  visit 
them,  and  under  their  commodious  oblong  roof,  as  we  rested 
on  thick  mats,  we  met  the  royalty,  King  Pongavali  of  Pelau, 
and  drank  the  good  health  of  His  Majesty  and  his  wives  and 
prime  ministers  in  endless  libations  of  tender  cocoanuts. 
Many  of  the  types  were  curious — not  like  the  Solomons,  not 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  461 

like  anything1  we  knew — stern  visages  set  around  with  Faun- 
tleroy  locks,  faces  slow  to  smile,  their  watchful  black  eyes 
lid-dropping  when  too  closely  scrutinised. 

Mr.  Nau  's  sweet  vahine  piled  in  my  lap  several  fine  Samoan 
mats,  one  of  them  thickly  fringed  with  vari-coloured  wor- 
sted, an  especial  treasure  in  her  eyes.  While  we  were  under 
shelter  a  heavy  shower  cleared  the  oppressive  air,  and  we 
walked  about  the  green  island,  where  I  was  allowed  to  go  and 
come  unchallenged  in  rickety  devil-devil  houses  such  as 
Jack  and  Martin  had  never  seen,  nor  even  Henry  and  poor 
weak  Tehei,  who  could  not  resist  coming  ashore. 

The  Pelauans  are  not  so  fastidious  as  the  Lua-Nuans,  and 
these  devil-devil  houses  are  noisome  with  a  clutter  of  offer- 
ings of  dirt-encrusted  turtle  shell,  native  kai-kai  spoons  of 
the  same  shell  and  of  mother-of-pearl,  malodorous  ragged 
garments — I  saw  a  grimy  plaid  shawl — dog-skulls,  sharks '- 
jaws,  repulsive  strings  of  fish-tails,  and,  under  one  conse- 
crated thatch,  a  week-dead  black  cat  swayed  and  swung  and 
perfumed  the  breeze.  At  all  times  watchers  squat  or  lie  in 
these  twilight  temples — unpleasant  creatures,  some  of  them 
with  loathly  skin  diseases. 

We  picked  up  a  few  fine  curios — Jack  was  especially 
elated  over  several  adzes  of  petrified  shell  that  were  routed 
from  obscurity  by  the  ancient  fathers  of  the  tribe,  wrought 
years  before  white  men  introduced  the  first  iron. 

When  we  returned  aboard,  a  large  crowd  saw  us  off,  and 
then  dispersed  to  sleep  away  the  heat.  Just  before  sunset,  in 
what  I  suppose  one  might  call  the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  we 
roused  from  our  deck-mats  and  brought  to  light  some  foolish 
miracles  to  astound  the  gathering  that  paddled  out  to  see 
what  it  could  see.  Some  were  absorbed  in  "  tuppenny  "  wire 
puzzles  until  the  marvelling  murmurs  of  others  called  them 
to  where  stupid  paper  wafers  spread  into  coloured  lilies  in 
pans  of  water,  or  Japanese  flowers  burst  into  swift  blossom- 
ing in  little  pots,  or  harmless  grey  lumps  of  clay  turned  into 
writhing  snakes  of  fire  at  the  touch  of  a  match.  Next  day 
the  King,  being  indisposed  and  bored,  despatched  a  courier 


462  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

with  request  that  we  bring  or  send  similar  wonders  for  his 
amusement.  It  was  too  hot  to  leave  the  awnings,  so  we  sent 
the  things.  We  noticed  that  no  reciprocal  gift  was  forth- 
coming. How  radically  different  peoples  in  the  same  part  of 
the  world  can  be!  The  missionary's  wife  was  ill,  so  the 
household  did  not  come  to  dinner  as  arranged.  Very  few 
canoes  paddled  out — either  we  must  have  gleaned  all  the 
curios,  or  else  we  had  nothing  the  population  wanted. 

By  the  time  we  were  ready  to  depart,  our  anchor  chain,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  anchor,  had  become  so  involved  in  the 
coral  groves  that  we  had  to  send  native  divers  down  to  disen- 
tangle them,  and  could  watch  their  every  movement.  I 
steered  out  the  narrow  reef  entrance  under  power,  snapping 
breakers  close  on  each  hand. 

Jack,  in  addition  to  writing  and  navigating  and  general 
captaining,  is  studying  up  everything  on  the  medical  shelf 
relating  to  Tehei's  sickness,  and  is  treating  him  very  care- 
fully; for  blackwater  fever  undoubtedly  it  is,  and  black- 
water  is  no  joke.  What  a  terrible  thing  a  death  on  the 
happy  Snark  would  be!  But  we  are  not  dwelling  upon 
death,  but  life  and  recovery.  Unfortunately,  Tehei's  mind, 
whether  conscious  or  wandering,  works  directly  against  our 
efforts.  He  seems  sweetly  determined  to  become  an  angel, 
and  meets  all  cheer-provoking  suggestion  with  patient  smiles ; 
while  all  his  childish-lisping  talk  is  in  the  missionary  nomen- 
clature. His  worship  leads  curiously  into  the  channel  of 
aitu  observance.  To-day  I  overheard  him  whispering;  "0 
God,  don't  kill  me!  0  God,  don't  kill  me!"  But  we  have 
simply  got  to  pull  him  through. 


Saturday,  October  3,  1908. 

Except  for  making  safely  out  of  Lord  Howe  at  three  yes- 
terday, we  did  not  employ  the  engine,  but  sailed  on  in  the 
warm-blowing  afternoon,  through  a  glorious  equatorial  sun- 
set, and  into  a  scintillating  night  of  electric  moon  and  stars 
and  phosphorescent  water,  until,  at  half  past  ten,  Martin 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  463 

sighted  Tasman  low-lying  not  far  off.  Jack  hove  to,  but 
was  up  and  down  all  night  to  be  sure  of  holding  his  weather 
position.  He  looked  very  tired-eyed  this  morning,  and  I 
could  see  his  burning,  stinging  hands  gave  him  no  respite. 
Happily,  his  natural  curiosity  is  such  that  the  study  and 
working  through  even  his  own  physical  misfortunes  (let 
alone  others')  nearly  offset  the  personal  pain  and  irk. 
Hence,  his  temper  is  equable,  and  no  one  else  is  forced  to 
suffer  unduly  on  his  account. 

Under  power,  once  near  Tasman,  we  skirted  her  purling 
reef,  all  strung  with  deep-green  wooded  islets,  Henry  at 
masthead,  bald  and  hatless  under  the  roasting  noonday  sky. 
Martin  was  triumphant  above  all  Solomon  sores  at  the  way 
his  smooth-running  masheen  was  "sewing"  on  distillate; 
and  Tehei,  deciding  to  live  until  he  beheld  one  more  frag- 
ment of  this  mundane  sphere,  crept  on  deck  and  eased  him- 
self on  to  a  mattress.  Peggy,  gallant  soul,  sat  beside  me, 
golden  ears  pricked,  restless  of  paw,  while  I  turned  for  the 
southeast  entrance.  A  dun  squall-curtain  that  had  been 
swinging  toward  the  opening  swerved  away  and  left  fair 
going. 

"The  dear  old  tub — I  love  every  plank  and  sheet  and 
pulley!"  Jack  laughed  to  me  from  the  bow  where  he  was 
directing  my  course. 

"This  is  an  atoll  what  is,"  was  his  next  call,  for  at  last 
we  were  gliding  into  the  fairy  ring  of  our  dreams,  re- 
stricted enough  for  one  to  realise  its  bounds  at  a  circling 
glance.  Here  the  water  is  deep,  and  no  coral  patches  could 
we  see. 

Out  came  Mr.  McNicoll,  a  small,  hard-bitten  Scotsman, 
who  holds  power  of  life  and  death  over  the  rapidly  dimin- 
ishing handful  of  almost  pure  Polynesians  on  this  privately- 
owned  island.  He  is  here  only  temporarily,  having  come 
to  help  the  manager,  Mr.  Oberg,  to  suppress  an  uprising  of 
the  natives  consequent  upon  a  scourge  of  dysentery  intro- 
duced by  Oberg 's  Black  Papuan  boat  crew.  So  autocratic 
has  Mr.  McNicoll  become  in  his  long  years  of  lording  it  over 


464  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

the  dark  races,  and  doing  the  thinking  for  their  dull  wits, 
that  it  never  occurs  to  him  that  he  cannot  exercise  unques- 
tioned authority  with  other  persons'  brown  boys.  Hence, 
there  were  at  least  surprised  looks  on  the  faces  of  Henry  and 
Nakata  when  our  caller  ordered  them  around  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Henry's  triangular  smile  took  on  a  twist 
of  resentment,  but  Nakata  saw  the  humour,  and  was  all 
polite  respect  and  obedience  to  the  quondam  "bossing."  I 
thought  it  was  exceedingly  funny,  until  the  interesting  char- 
acter squarely  kicked  Peggy,  merely  because  she  happened 
to  be  standing  between  him  and  the  mongrel  he  desired  to 
kick.  Peggy's  tear-dimmed  eyes  wrung  a  protest  from  me, 
whereupon  McNicoll  was  all  apology  for  his  thoughtlessness, 
and  jokingly  remarked  that  he  fancied  Peggy's  tail  had 
been  bobbed  "so's  to  make  room  for  her  on  the  schooner." 
Then  he  relieved  his  embarrassment  by  kicking  the  right 
dog  with  the  threat  that  he'd  throw  a  leg  o'  Moses  at  him  if 
he  didn't  keep  out  o'  way. 

But  McNicoll  was  solid  at  heart,  and  displayed  every  con- 
sideration, sending  out  fruit  and  vegetables  to  ''Captain 
London  and  the  Mate,"  bringing  his  sturdy,  lawful  native 
wife  to  see  us — a  stolid  New  Ireland  woman  in  decent 
muslin  wrapper — and  their  three-year-old  son,  the  most 
beautiful  child  I  ever  saw.  Other  and  older  sons  and  daugh- 
ters are  being  educated  elsewhere.  McNicoll  is  evidently  a 
man  keen  to  his  responsibilities  as  a  parent.  He  is  full  of 
story  and  anecdote,  and  will  ever  stand  out  in  my  memory, 
if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  is  the  first  white  man  I 
ever  talked  with  who  has  eaten  human  flesh,  or,  rather,  ad- 
mitted the  same — albeit  this  one  swears  he  did  not  know  it 
was  human  flesh  until  afterward.  "Man,  man,  I  was  fair 
blowed,  I  was,  any  amount,  I  tell  you,  by  Jove!"  he  de- 
claimed; then,  to  my  question:  "It  was  nigger  meat,  any- 
ways, and  .  .  .  well,  you  might  say  it's  more  like  pig-flesh 
than  anything  else,  fine-grained,  y'know  ..."  and  he 
trailed  off  into  hair-lifting  tales  of  his  years  in  New  Guinea, 
New  Britain,  New  Ireland — where  the  natives  are  blacker  in 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  465 

body,  and  soul,  if  that  be  possible,  than  the  Malaitans.  A 
missing  thumb  on  his  left  hand  was  torn  out  by  a  winch 
when  he,  alone,  hoisted  overboard  sling-loads  of  five  hun- 
dred coolies  dead  from  cholera,  somewhere  on  the  China 
coast. 

McNicoll  has  lately  buried  twenty-three  of  the  inhabitants 
here,  dead  from  dysentery.  There  remain  but  ninety-three 
natives,  thirty-six  of  whom  are  women,  and  there  are  only 
two  children  in  the  whole  community. 

This  man  verified  Jack's  diagnosis  of  Tehei's  condition, 
and  told  dreadful  instances  of  the  mortality  from  black- 
water.  As  to  Jack's  hands,  he  examined  the  peeling  upon 
peeling  that  was  visible,  and  the  painful,  dry,  hot  swelling, 
and  said  he  had  once  had  something  like  it,  but  had  got  over 
it;  didn't  know  what  it  was — maybe  the  salt,  maybe  the  sun, 
and  that  Jack's  and  his  own  were  the  only  cases  he  had  ever 
seen. 

Niumanu,  Tasman, 
Sunday,  October  4,  1908. 

The  rain  pelted  all  night,  and  the  men  were  driven  from 
their  deck  mattresses;  but  I,  under  a  flap  of  canvas,  stuck  it 
out,  with  Peggy,  who  had  been  rudely  detached  from  Jack's 
side  when  he  was  washed  out,  curled  beside  me.  Peggy 
loves  me  more  and  more,  but  when  night  falls  she  hunts  the 
shelter  of  Jack's  arms,  and,  if  he  has  to  desert  her,  she  goes 
to  Martin,  whom  she  has  won  to  her  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
who  now  considers  her  "a  pretty  good  little  yellow  dog." 

This  forenoon  McNicoll  placed  his  whaleboat,  manned  by 
magnificent  Black  Papuans,  at  our  disposal  for  the  day.  He 
also  ordered  a  dance,  in  a  space  among  tall  dense  trees — the 
most  ideally  primitive  and  savage  dance  we  ever  watched. 
Men  and  women  were  clad  in  bushy  ballet-skirts  of  grass 
and  leaves  and  feathers,  dancing  angularly  with  quick  jerks 
and  flirts  of  the  undulating  fringes.  One  man  was  a  small 
satyr  among  his  wood-fellows,  and  as  they  all  moved  hither 
and  thither  into  the  twilight,  fireflies  wove  like  shuttles 


466  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

among  them  and  shot  in  and  out  the  dark  pillars  of  the 
forest. 

A  small,  sweet,  listless  people  are  these  Niumanus,  soft- 
voiced,  soft-mannered,  without  ambition  enough  to  persist  as 
a  race.  A  wonder  it  is  they  gathered  sufficient  impetus  to 
protest  against  the  dysentery ;  but  it  was  little  more  than  an 
hysterical  protest  against  fate. 

The  village  is  very  picturesque,  smothered  in  tufted,  laden 
palms  full  of  birds,  and  we  saw  only  one  devil-devil  house, 
from  the  door  of  which  a  coffee-coloured  little  Mephisto 
peered.  The  rapidly  dwindling  female  members  of  the  pop- 
ulation are  the  most  comely  we  have  seen  in  this  part  of  the 
South  Seas,  despite  their  cropped  skulls.  What  hair  they 
have  lies  in  tender,  tawny-tipped  ringlets.  We  did  not  see 
the  pitiful  remnant  of  Niumanu's  childhood. 

And  the  burying-place — that  is  even  more  curious  than 
Lua-Nua's,  although  quite  different.  The  import  of  the 
relics  that  decorate  the  rickety  graves  was  very  stimulating 
to  our  white  imaginations.  One  tomb,  plastered  with  pink 
lime,  bore  the  rusted  wraith  of  an  old  musket;  another,  a 
bronze  rudder-pintle,  green-crusted;  a  group  of  graves 
bristled  with  bayonets  corroded  to  mere  uneven  toothpicks, 
while  rust-splintered  marlinspikes  and  crowbars  stuck  up  at 
intervals,  and  one  lone  mound  boasted  an  almost  unrecog- 
nisable sauce-pan — indeed,  here  were  all  the  copper  and 
hardware  that  had  been  taken  from  two  New  England  whale- 
ships  that  the  once  adventuresome  people  of  Tasman  had  ' '  cut 
out"  more  than  a  century  ago.  One  of  these  ships,  the 
Sailing  Directions  says,  they  captured  inside  the  lagoon,  but 
the  other  they  went  out  after  in  their  canoes. 

McNicoll  happened  to  remark  that  some  of  the  older  graves 
near  the  reef  had  been  washed  open  by  the  surf.  Martin 
departed  forthwith  to  see  if  he  could  find  a  skull.  He  was 
not  allowed  to  get  away  with  it  for  nothing,  however,  the 
natives,  first  shocked,  then  covetous,  considering  it  worth 
three  sticks  of  tobacco.  "Some  cheap  head!"  Martin  com- 
mented, turning  the  ghastly  trophy  in  his  hands. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  467 

Monday,  October  5,  1908. 

This  would  have  been  one  of  our  loveliest  days  in  the 
tropics  except  for  the  heat  that  boiled  our  white  blood.  I 
have  been  frantic  with  prickly  heat  that  rose  in  a  rash,  and 
Jack  suffered  greatly  with  his  turgid  hands.  And  I  do  not 
think  our  breakfast  of  tinned  sauerkraut  and  frankfurters 
was  the  most  approved  diet  for  the  climate!  At  any  rate, 
we  enjoyed  an  inactive  day,  indolently  discussing  the  possi- 
bility of  missing  the  next  steamer  to  Sydney.  Fancy  being 
so  moderate  that  one  misses  sailings  five  weeks  apart! 

Nakata  seemed  possessed  with  good  spirits,  and  his  vibrant 
Japanese  lilts  soared  out  and  upward  from  the  galley  to  a 
low  accompaniment  of  self-pitying  groans  from  Tehei,  one  of 
whose  aberrations  is  that  we  over-persuaded  him  to  come 
on  the  Snark.  Martin  was  indignant,  and  reminded  him 
sharply  of  the  five  different  refusals  Jack  had  given  when 
Tehei  began  first  to  hint  and  then  to  beg  to  be  allowed  to 
sail  with  us.  Jack  gave  the  demented  child  a  good  talk- 
ing-to,  in  the  hope  of  bracing  him  up,  but  such  result  is  not 
apparent.  He  turns  an  obstinate  face  to  the  wall  and  says 
no  word.  Meanwhile  his  fever  is  well  in  hand  under  Jack's 
unremitting  treatment ;  but  Tehei  has  long  since  decided  that 
the  only  way  to  abate  his  homesickness  is  by  way  of  steamer 
from  Sydney,  since  there  are  no  connections  to  be  made  from 
the  Solomons;  and  gloom  has  settled  upon  his  soul.  This 
evening,  to  my  ukulele,  Nakata  and  Henry  danced  a  merry 
figure  or  two  on  deck  in  the  moonlight;  but  Tehei  stuck  it 
out  in  the  hot  cabin  and  would  not  be  beguiled. 


Tuesday,  October  6,  1908. 

Early  in  our  first  sleep  last  night  we  were  aroused  by  a 
low  warning  rumble  from  Peggy,  and  almost  before  we  could 
locate  the  canoe,  three  womanish,  ringleted  men,  with  great 
soft  eyes,  were  perched  upon  our  rail,  explaining  that  they 
wanted  to  ship  on  the  Snark.  It  was  all  part  of  the  recent 
panic — the  poor  things  want  to  get  away. 


468  THE  LOG  .OF  THE  SNARK 

This  morning  we  were  under  way  about  nine,  Mr.  Oberg 
and  his  crew  helping  us  break  out  the  anchor  and  hoist  the 
canvas.  Jack  says  these  blacks,  although  willing  enough, 
are  very  awkward  sailors  compared  with  the  Polynesians. 
There  was  a  certain  relief  in  getting  away  from  this  anchor- 
age, as  the  reef  to  the  west  was  a  trifle  too  close  for  mental 
repose. 

And  so  we  have  left  our  first  atolls — rosy  garlands  flung 
upon  the  sapphire  sea — and  are  pointed  for  the  Solomons 
again,  which,  while  we  do  not  love  them,  are  more  like  home 
and  headquarters  than  any  other  place  in  this  wild  region. 

Tehei  is  almost  laughable.  Without  deigning  to  notice 
Jack  and  me,  or  even  Henry,  he  languidly  ordered  break- 
fast of  Nakata,  who  offered  us  something  very  like  a  wink 
as  he  humoured  the  sick  man.  I  think  Tehei  would  have 
liked  the  last  hen  (the  rest  have  flown  overboard),  but  he 
did  not  have  quite  the  courage  to  suggest  it.  The  hen,  by 
the  way,  a  small  brown  person,  is  conducting  a  most  scandal- 
ous flirtation  with  a  sleek  drake  that  McNicoll  gave  us. 

This  evening  I  took  my  watch.  We  are  short-handed, 
with  Tehei  laid  up  and  Wada  gone.  After  I  had  turned  in 
on  my  deck-cot,  the  squalls  set  in.  Such  rain !  Such  blasts 
of  wind!  Such  sudden  going-over  of  the  hull,  until  the  lee 
rail  and  half  the  launch  were  buried!  And  such  rushes  to 
the  main-sheet!  Henry  handles  the  boat  well,  without  or- 
ders, bringing  her  up  into  the  wind  and  keeping  the  head- 
sails  shaking  just  enough.  He  has  a  fine  feel  of  a  boat. 

Wednesday,  October  7,  1908. 

It  is  one  year  to-day  since  we  picked  our  way  out 
among  the  floating  islets  of  lilies  in  Hilo  Harbor.  I  spent 
this  forenoon  on  my  cot,  in  a  dead  calm,  trying  to  make  up 
sleep.  We  are  a  little  less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
from  Manning  Straits.  After  the  calm,  came  light  airs,  but 
only  just  enough  for  steerage-way. 

Martin  went  at  the  forepeak,  and  gave  it  a  " turning  out," 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  469 

aired  our  precious  saddlery,  and  discovered  three  tins  of 
flour,  along  with  two  dozen  tins  of  oysters  and  some  fine 
dried  apples,  peaches  and  apricots. 

And  we  saw  two  big  dolphin — the  first  since  before  Nuka- 
Hiva. 

Thursday,  October  8,  1908. 

So  tired,  so  tired  .  .  .  spent  forenoon  in  bed.  But  my 
passive  illness  is  nothing  beside  the  active  stress  of  Jack's 
lamentable  hands.  Sydney  is  becoming  very  desirable,  with 
its  advice  and  help. 

Last  evening  I  took  my  watch — although  Jack  had  ar- 
ranged otherwise.  Had  good  weather,  but  the  next  watch 
was  fierce  with  squalls  from  black  curtains  on  the  horizon, 
and  the  mizzen  had  to  be  lowered.  The  awning  was  taken 
in,  and  the  Snark  looked  bared  for  action.  We  ran  fast, 
wary  of  the  big  mainsail  jibing  over  in  the  "hummers." 
The  worst  squall  came  from  two  directions  almost  simulta- 
neously. There  was  no  sleep  until  nearly  four.  We  were 
glad  to  be  no  nearer  Manning  Straits,  which  are  imperfectly 
charted,  and  treacherous  with  reefs  and  warring  currents. 

Tehei  went  quite  "luny,"  in  a  calm  before  dawn,  took  his 
best  suit  of  clothes  on  deck,  threw  it  overboard,  and  was 
preparing1  to  follow,  when  Martin  caught  him.  He  evi- 
dently desired  to  enter  the  isles  of  the  blest  in  pleasant  rai- 
ment. 

Friday,  October  9,  1908. 

I  have  heard  Jack  tell  of  the  sun-dogs  in  the  Arctic,  and  I 
surely  never  expected  to  see  my  first  sun-dogs  on  a  hot  day 
under  the  Equator!  But  that  is  just  the  novelty  which 
greeted  us  from  this  forenoon's  sky — two  soft  blobby  false 
suns,  one  on  either  side  the  true  luminary.  Another  un- 
usual occurrence  was  Henry's  taking  the  chronometer  time 
for  Jack's  morning  sight.  Henry  has  been  working  very 
faithfully  of  late  at  his  navigation. 


470  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

Later  in  the  day  we  could  see  the  dim  blue  tops  of  Ysabel 
rising  from  the  horizon  to  the  southeast,  and  a  tangle  of 
islands  ahead  that  made  our  senses  prick  with  caution  once 
more. 

This  being  Martin's  birthday,  we  made  Cupid  stew  (see 
Jack's  play,  Scorn  of  Women,  for  recipe)  of  the  flirtatious 
brown  hen,  and  opened  a  bottle  of  the  Sumatra's  Rhine  wine. 
The  Snark  logged  along  slowly  and  evenly,  into  a  lovely  sun- 
set of  lavender  and  rose  and  gold,  with  glorious  piled  clouds 
on  Ysabel's  peaks,  and  woolly  puffs  dotting  the  horizon. 
Before  the  huge  crimson  sun  had  touched  the  western  waves, 
like  a  pale  reflection  the  full  moon  had  grown  in  the  low 
sky  opposite,  so  silvery  delicate  that  it  seemed  a  transparent 
gossamer  hoop  through  which  the  ineffable  colours  drifted 
and  filtered. 

Jack  hove  to  for  the  night,  and  while  we  drank  in  the  rest- 
ful beauty,  and  cooled  in  the  evening  air,  the  anthropomor- 
phic Tehei,  below,  called  upon  his  concept  of  the  Deity  not 
to  kill  him.  Henry,  his  sneer  almost  a  triangle,  called  down 
in  his  husky  staccato : 

"Hey!  Tehei!  You  killing  you 'self !  God,  he  no  Solo- 
mon to  kill  you — you  kill  you 'self,  I  tell  you!" 

I  cannot  reconcile  this  futile,  febrile  thing  with  the 
old  Tehei.  He  is  behaving  according  to  his  lights — of 
course;  but  methinks  they  are  rushlights,  and  burn  but 
dimly. 

.  .  .  Midnight:  I  feel  quite  weak  from  relief.  Nakata, 
a  little  less  careful  than  usual,  had  eaten  some  salmon  that 
was  past  virtue.  Shortly  before  nine,  when  all  were  asleep, 
the  little  man  became  violently  ill  with  ptomaine  poisoning, 
and  for  three  hours  Jack  and  I  wrestled  for  his  life  with 
every  means  at  our  command — and  won.  He  is  sleeping 
now  like  a  tired  baby.  It  was  terrible,  fighting  one  rigid 
convulsion  after  another,  conquering,  and  watching  the  at- 
tacks grow  less  frequent.  Nakata 's  last  observation  before 
he  drifted  into  sleep,  was:  "Never  I  want  to  taste  mustard 
again!" 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  471 

Saturday,  Oct.  10,  1908. 

Blue  sky,  blue  water,  snowy  surf,  low  woolpacks  on  the 
blue  rim  of  the  world,  light  breeze,  mountains  of  Ysabel  to 
port,  and  the  blue  velvet  hills  of  Choiseul  to  starboard — 
and  you  think  you  have  it  all,  a  picture  of  peace  and  security. 
But  the  two  hours  I  steered  this  morning,  nine  to  eleven, 
through  torrential  currents  and  tide-rips  that  brimmed  and 
followed  and  seemed  ever  about  to  roll  over  our  stern,  was 
one  of  my  most  exciting  experiences. 

We  saw  our  way  largely  through  the  eyes  of  Henry,  aloft, 
who  called  down  to  Jack,  forward,  who  in  turn  shouted 
instructions  to  me  above  the  racket  of  engine  and  rushing 
water  and  impact  of  wind.  The  steering  gear  was  stiff,  and 
Jack  told  off  Nakata  to  help  me  at  the  wheel  if  I  found  it 
too  much  for  my  strength.  But  I  managed  it  unaided  from 
start  to  finish.  There  is  a  wicked  reef  off  Ysabel,  in  Man- 
ning Straits,  and  the  tide-rips  look  like  surf  on  reef,  so  that 
I  needed  quite  desperate  nerve  at  times  to  obey  orders  and 
steer  unswervingly  straight  for  a  toothed  line  of  white 
water.  Some  day  I  shall  learn  never  to  question  Jack's 
judgment,  no  matter  how  secretly,  in  matters  of  the  sea.  In 
spite  of  two  charts,  which,  in  addition  to  being  frankly  in- 
adequate and  unreliable,  flatly  contradicted  each  other, — in 
spite  of  phenomena  that  to  the  rest  of  us,  even  Henry, 
appeared  convincingly  disastrous,  my  blue-eyed  sailor  ex- 
ercised his  everlasting  unerring  judgment  in  this  intricate 
maze  of  rock  and  coral,  shoal  and  crazy  current.  "Oh — 
just  my  luck!"  he  will  say;  but  I  know  better.  We  who 
sail  with  him  are  not  born  to  be  drowned !  I  have  observed 
him  too  much  to  have  any  doubts. 

My  happy  heart!  My  brave  boat!  The  tonic  of  explor- 
ing in  uncharted  places,  wondering  each  moment  if  the 
keel  will  not  bump  on  a  hummock  of  coral  in  the  watery, 
swirling  plain  of  shallows!  A  few  remembered  words  of 
advice  and  reminiscence  from  men  who  have  been  here,  or 
know  others  who  have  been,  is  all  we  have  to  go  by ;  the  rest 
is  guesswork  and  judgment. 


472  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

" Watch  out  lively!    We're  going  into  another  rip!" 

And  I  watch — meeting  with  all  my  weight  on  the  brassy 
teak  wheel  the  shock  of  the  combing,  fighting  water;  and 
then — 

"Mate  Woman!" 

"Yes!" 

"Keep  her  off— keep  her  off!" 

And  keep  her  off  I  do,  noting  Henry's  warning  wave  as 
well,  as  he  sees  a  coral  peril  near  at  hand. 

With  the  engine  working  full  power,  and  every  stitch  of 
canvas  drawing  in  a  bright  gale,  we  sail  like  mad;  but  the 
adverse  current  pulls  so  strong  that,  looking  overside  into 
the  blue-green  water,  we  see  coral  patches  standing  still  so 
far  as  our  progress  is  concerned.  Nakata,  peering  over, 
sees,  looks  up  at  the  marble-hard  sails,  and  down  again,  in- 
credulously : 

"Snark  stand  still!" 

But  slowly,  slowly,  almost  inch  by  inch,  we  win  through, 
and  are  slashing  along  in  gentler  water,  the  contrary  cur- 
rents left  behind,  all  sense  of  danger  sloughed  off  in  the 
whirling  background.  Henry  descends  and  stretches  him- 
self, and  recounts  a  tale  of  ripping  tides  where  two  strong 
men  were  needed  at  the  wheel;  then,  three,  and  the  vessel 
swung  around  in  spite  of  their  combined  effort.  Henry's 
imagination  makes  his  broken  English  very  dramatic;  then 
he  trails  off  with  liquid  chucklings  in  his  veiled  voice,  while 
his  black  eyes  shine  with  old  Paumotan  memories. 

And  through  all  the  tumble  and  activity  of  the  Straits, 
I  am  conscious  of  the  pleasure  of  the  keen  whip  of  wind  on 
bare  calves  and  feet  and  the  sting  of  spindrift  on  my 
cheeks,  and,  greatest  of  all  satisfactions,  the  sense  of  doing 
my  part,  of  being  needed  and  making  good  in  my  station  at 
the  helm. 

1 '  Can  you  beat  it ! "  would  come  the  laughing  shout  of  my 
skipper,  who  waves  both  arms  in  entire  forgetfulness  of  his 
painful  hands.  Fine  mental  healing,  this ! 

We  had  hooked  a  long,  slender  fish  on  our  troll  line  as  we 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  473 

were  negotiating  a  succession  of  rips,  and  the  silver-blue 
sword  was  dragged  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  creaming  rollers 
by  the  combined  speed  of  the  yacht  and  the  warring  current. 
Not  a  moment  before,  Nakata,  who  was  quite  himself  after 
his  sickness,  had  broached  the  puzzling  problem  of  dinner; 
and  now,  out  of  the  chaotic  passage,  the  little  man  served  a 
delicious  platter  of  that  fish,  dressed  over  with  tomatoes  and 
onions,  and  accompanied  by  German  beer. 

New  Georgia  is  visible  dead  ahead,  and  all  is  plain  sailing. 
Jack  has  fallen  into  a  doze,  and  I  yearn  over  his  face,  gone 
tired  and  sick  as  he  relaxes.  And  I  love  the  gear  about  him, 
the  gear  of  his  sea  avocation — the  spread  chart,  held  flat  with 
the  dividers  and  parallel  rulers;  the  binoculars,  the  sextant 
in  its  case,  and  the  perpetually  low-ticking  chronometer. 


Sunday,  October  11,  1908. 

A  bad  squall  took  us  aback  last  night.  Henry,  alone  at 
the  helm,  rang  the  bell  to  the  engine  room ;  I  yelled  to  Jack, 
who  landed  on  his  feet  at  one  bound,  and  started  through 
the  cabin.  He  stumbled  over  Martin,  who  had  struck  the 
floor  on  all  fours,  while  Nakata,  falling  upon  Martin  from  the 
upper  berth,  was  saying  " Excuse  me!"  in  mid-air.  The 
squall  nearly  buried  the  launch  on  the  port  rail,  and  the 
wind  came  from  every  quarter,  accompanied  by  a  deafening 
and  blinding  electrical  display.  The  main  sheet  and  main 
peak  halyards  carried  away,  and  things  were  very  tense  for  a 
while.  During  the  night  the  mizzen  was  taken  in  twice,  and 
hoisted  as  many  times. — Just  a  sample  of  night  sailing  in  the 
Solomon  Archipelago. 

Monday,  October  12,  1908. 

Last  evening,  during  my  watch,  I  had  the  one,  grisly,  hair- 
raising  scare  of  the  Snark  voyage.  It  was  an  eerie  night  to 
be  alone  on  deck.  The  lightning  was  almost  continuous,  and 
in  rocking  calms  between  windy  puffs,  the  intermittent  rat- 
tle and  patter  of  loose  blocks,  and  the  whine  of  boom- jaws 


474  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNAEK 

against  tortured  masts,  were  extremely  uncanny.  Then 
would  burst  the  squalls,  with  the  clouds  spitting  flame,  and 
the  sharp  rat-tat  of  reef -points  and  the  taut  hum  of  the  rig- 
ging, and  the  unearthly  swish  of  unseen  waves,  were  no  more 
soothing  to  my  strung  nerves.  I  am  not  overly  timid,  but 
for  once  I  was  not  in  tune  with  the  responsibility  of  my  post. 
Jack,  coming  up  for  a  look  around  before  turning  in,  must 
have  sensed  my  distress,  for  he  said: 

' '  This  is  a  nasty  night.  I  '11  stay  up  with  you. ' ' 
With  him,  I  found  the  night  very  wonderful,  and  we 
amused  ourselves  counting  the  seconds  between  lightning 
flash  and  crack  of  thunder.  Sometimes  they  were  almost 
simultaneous,  so  close  were  the  bolts.  Then  again,  we  counted 
several  seconds.  It  was  in  a  particularly  long  period  that  I 
received  my  terrifying  experience.  There  was  no  breath  of 
wind.  Jack  sat  beside  the  rudder  box,  while  I  stood  before 
him,  facing  aft,  and  rubbing  his  hot  hands.  There  had  been 
a  blinding  blue  flash,  an  awful  illumination,  right  in  my 
face,  and  the  moon  at  my  back,  veiled  in  a  blue  cloud,  shed  a 
ghostly  gleam  on  Jack's  upturned  face.  Then  something 
seemed  to  be  happening  to  us.  Jack  was  staring  horribly, 
and  I  leaned  nearer,  myself  staring,  fascinated  by  what  I 
saw.  It  seemed  that  some  spell  was  laid  upon  us,  separating 
us  as  if  all  space  intervened,  and  that  we  knew  it,  each  to 
each,  and  were  powerless  to  help  ourselves.  He  seemed 
striving  vainly  to  speak,  his  mouth  open,  and  my  horror- 
stricken  eyes  saw  his  jaw  fall.  I  thought  all  the  thoughts  of 
my  life,  quickly,  distinctly.  I  felt  the  voiceless  tragedy  of 
this  ending  to  our  exceptional  life  and  of  our  existence  on 
the  Snark.  I  thought  we  were  both  dying,  that  some  un- 
learned manifestation  of  electricity  had  taken  possession  of 
us  and  the  end  had  come.  Then,  as  I  gazed  and  strove  to 
hold  our  ebbing  lives  together,  consciousness  began  to  wane, 
and  with  a  great  effort  I  tried  to  let  go  Jack's  hand  from  my 
two,  saying:  "Let  go!  Let  go!'*  In  my  half -trance,  the 
idea  persisted  that  we  had  established  some  sort  of  "circle" 
that  was  paralysing  our  faculties.  Also,  I  consciously  stood 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  475 

clear  of  the  iron  wheel  and  other  metal  in  the  cockpit.  Then 
Jack  spoke : 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

I  came  to  myself  and  found,  with  relief  that  was  a  pang, 
that  he  had  merely  been  counting  the  seconds,  with  his  mouth 
and  eyes  open,  and  the  whole  million  years  I  had  suffered 
were  encompassed  in  the  space  of  eight  seconds.  I  was 
shaking  all  over,  but  my  ego  succeeded  in  gasping : 

"But  I  did  behave  with  presence  of  mind,  according  to 
my  lights,  when  I  let  go  of  your  hands ! ' ' 

"You  behaved  with  judgment  enough,  I'll  admit, "  he 
joked;  "but  your  physics  were  darned  bad!" 

I  agreed  with  him ;  but  the  freezing  horror  was  still  in  my 
blood,  and  it  was  some  time  before  it  seemed  to  flow  warmly 
again.  The  remainder  of  the  night  was  fine,  and  we  slept 
soundly. 

The  engine  has  been  chugging  away  all  this  day,  but  we 
have  made  few  knots,  what  of  head-sea  and  -wind.  Every 
one  seems  fit ;  even  Tehei,  evidently  deciding,  as  Jack  put  it, 
that  his  tactics  were  * '  buying  him  nothing, ' '  greeted  me  with 
a  smiling :  ' '  Good  morning,  Bihaura, ' '  and  ' '  Good  morning, 
Tehei, "  to  Jack.  After  which  Jack  haled  him,  gently 
enough,  to  the  wheel,  despite  protest,  and  made  him  steer. 
The  S nark's  course  was  erratic  in  the  extreme,  for  Tehei  was 
weak  as  a  cat,  and  wabbled  badly.  But  the  method  worked — 
the  man  was  stung  to  interest  in  life  and  to  appetite,  and  ate 
a  hearty  dinner.  Jack  let  him  rest  well,  then  helped  him  to 
the  wheel  again.  "I'll  make  a  man  of  him  yet,"  he  bragged 
to  me. 

It  is  high  time  we  connected  with  Pennduffryn.  Our 
kerosene  is  getting  low ;  we  have  bread  for  but  one  more  day ; 
yeast  and  flour  are  gone;  our  last  rice  was  consumed  three 
days  ago.  We  are  pretty  well  down  to  our  German  tins, 
with  their  enormous  duty. 


476  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


Pepesala,  Cape  Marsh, 
Pavuvu  or  Russell  Group, 
Tuesday,  October  13,  1908. 

Not  much  headway  in  the  night,  with  light  wind  and  north 
current.  This  morning  Nakata  came  down  with  fever,  and, 
in  one  of  his  lucid  moments,  made  all  of  us,  except  Tehei, 
laugh  when  he  chattered  whimsically : 

" Please,  Lord,  don't  kill  me!" 

To  assist  Henry,  I  peeled  the  onions  (our  last  vegetable) 
while  I  steered,  under  power,  with  my  feet,  and  I  smiled  to 
hear  the  Rapa  Islander  's  picturesque  language  as  he  struggled 
with  can-openers  on  cans  that  had  been  intended  to  yield  to 
their  ''keys/'  which  had  futilely  broken  off. 

Into  West  Bay,  or,  more  poetically,  "The  Bay  of  a  Thou- 
sand Ships,"  the  Snark  glided  before  noon;  and  out  to  us 
came  George  Washington,  or  some  one  very  like — Mr.  Kiss- 
ling,  trader  here  at  Cape  Marsh.  We  had  him  to  our  midday 
meal,  and  found  him  a  mine  of  interest.  Twenty-three  years 
in  the  South  Seas,  he  bears  many  a  mark  of  his  prolonged 
tussle  with  nature  and  with  man's  devices.  His  great  chest 
is  coral-scarred,  deep,  to  the  bone,  from  some  battle  with  the 
breakers.  One  leg  was  dynamited,  and,  while  he  can  walk  on 
it,  the  rended  tissues  have  developed  into  a  chronic  sore. 
Mr.  Kissling  knew  Stevenson,  and  loved  him  for  his  cheer 
against  odds;  and  he  remembers  Lord  Pembroke,  who,  al- 
though his  income  was  half  a  million  a  year,  preferred  to 
roam  rather  than  spend  conventionally,  and  lost  his  yacht 
Albatross  in  the  Ringgold  Group — not  far  from  the  scene  of 
our  close  call. 

We  had  tea  and  dinner  ashore,  and  I  found  a  little  organ 
in  the  trader's  living  room.  Amongst  other  things  he  had 
once  been  a  church  organist ! 

Peggy  had  us  in  tears  of  laughter  over  her  pompous  ap- 
proach to  a  monster  mastiff,  a  good  natured,  indulgent  soul 
who  was  awkwardly  nonplussed  by  this  intrepid  insect  that 
braced  up  so  menacingly  to  him.  Her  superiority  once 
established,  she  made  friends  with  him  and  with  a  fat  terrier 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  477 

of  her  own  persuasion  that  was  playing  with  an  enormous 
Maltese  tomcat  grown  lean  with  lizards.  A  family  of  guinea 
pigs  caused  Peggy  to  bark  her  head  nearly  off;  and  the 
sheep  .  .  .  But  she  respected  the  two  big  white  cows,  and 
we  had  already  taught  her  that  ducks  and  hens  are  taboo. 
She  doesn't  even  see  them  as  she  stalks  by,  although  I  think 
I  can  detect  a  slight  lop  to  one  ear. 

A  walk  about  Levers  Pacific  Plantation  showed  us  a  very 
beautiful  as  well  as  unique  island,  for  a  slanting  up-thrust  of 
coral  formation  has  created  a  basin  that  forms  a  lovely  lake 
of  fresh  water.  Looking  seaward  through  the  oblique  pillars 
of  feathered  palms,  in  the  blue  lagoon  with  its  purple  coral- 
shadows,  and  in  the  waters  beyond,  we  could  see  innumerable 
green  islets,  each  a  ' '  fragment  of  Paradise. ' ' 

In  company  with  Mr.  Kissling,  and  Messrs.  Hickie  and 
Birley,  two  young  Englishmen  in  charge  of  the  estates  here, 
we  saw  the  plantations,  and  were  greatly  struck  with  the 
deforesting  that  had  been  accomplished — a  large  area  cleared 
of  all  but  the  grotesque  stumps  of  colossal  "  board-trees, " 
like  those  of  Upolu.  The  great  bases  still  stand,  flanked  by 
their  satin-grey  bastions. 

"We  are  now  looking  forward  almost  eagerly  to  Penn- 
duffryn,  to  get  our  mail  and  make  ready  for  the  steamer 
to  Sydney,  which  leaves  Aola,  a  station  to  the  east  of 
Pennduffryn,  on  November  5.  We  have  sojourned  in  these 
Solomon  Islands  long  enough  for"  the  present — too  long  for 
our  good.  Glorious  earth  monuments  of  verdure  that  they 
are,  yet,  in  their  existent  state,  they  are  no  place  for  white 
men  and  women.  Indeed,  their  own  aborigines  do  not  thrive  j 
what  with  fever,  ulcers,  skin  diseases  and  worse,  bad  teeth, 
and  innutrition,  they  are  a  sorry  lot  in  the  main.  And  a 
Polynesian  fares  little  better  here  than  a  white  man.  When 
we  return  from  Australia,  all  mended  and  fresh  for  a  new 
start,  we  shall  go  aboard  the  Snark  and  immediately  fill  away 
to  the  west — always  west,  and  north  of  west,  and  south  of 
west,  the  round  world  'round  until  we  are  bound  at  last 
around  Cape  Horn  and  north  to  San  Francisco  .Bay. 


478  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 


Thursday,  October  15,  1908. 

On  a  "windless,  glassy  floor,"  engine  purring  fault- 
lessly, we  slipped  out  of  the  Bay  of  a  Thousand  Ships  and 
by  the  fantastic  green  litter  of  the  Pavuvu  islets,  like  leaves 
strewn  on  a  peacock-blue  mantle;  on,  hour  after  hour,  past 
Savo,  the  volcano  island,  where  the  water  appeared  dusty, 
as  if  from  volcanic  ash;  along  beautiful  Guadalcanal,  her 
mountain-laps  cradling  the  mist;  flying-fish  scudding  from 
our  sleek  forefoot  and  tripping  over  the  top  of  the  absinthe 
water.  Tehei,  contentedly  munching  a  ripe  guava,  steered 
for  an  hour  or  so.  Jack  was  in  great  fettle — undoubtedly 
with  sense  of  safe  ending  to  a  voyage  in  such  adverse  en- 
vironment. Coming  toward  me  with  his  merry  walk,  he 
stopped  to  listen  to  the  regular  throb  of  the  engine,  and  said 
very  quietly,  stating  the  mere  fact:  "I  have  figured  that, 
counting  repairs,  Martin's  salary,  and  so  forth,  that  that 
engine  has  cost  me  one  hundred  dollars  for  every  mile  she 
has  run.— But  what  of  it?"  he  added  brightly.  "We're 
here,  aren't  we?"  Which  same  is  his  invariable  cheery 
conclusion  to  all  irking  propositions. 

"Look  at  Peg,"  Jack  remarked  softly  just  now;  and  I 
raised  my  gaze  to  see  the  little  slender  golden  thing  sitting 
before  me  on  the  deck,  very  upright  on  her  thin,  aristocratic 
toes,  regarding  my  face  in  the  same  searching,  boding 
manner  as  when  we  neared  the  end  of  our  stay  at  Meringe. 
There  has  been  nothing  unusual  going  on  aboard,  save  that  I 
got  out  a  box  of  handsome  ribbons  and  made  wide  girdles  for 
summer  gowns  in  Sydney.  How  does  she  fore-sense  change  ? 
Even  if  she  could  understand  our  speech,  there  has  been  no 
speech — how  can  I  talk  about  the  possibility  of  relinquishing 
her?  By  all  right  of  sentiment,  she  is  my  dog.  Her  eyes 
.  .  .  here  they  are  before  me,  and  I  cannot  describe  them 
.  .  .  up-cast,  large  beyond  all  eyes  of  dogs — stirless,  stead- 
fast, so  deep,  so  deep  .  .  .  there  is  no  plumbing  the  warm 
brown  of  the  pure  pools,  where  little  golden  lights  play  up 
like  live  things ;  not  little  devils — though  they  could  be  such 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  479 

— but  glints  of  feeling  made  visible,  love-lights  from  heart 
and  brain.  For  Peggy  loves  with  all  of  her,  profoundly. 
How  did  the  Creator  come  to  house  such  great  capacity  of 
lovingness  in  so  lowly  a  frame? 

.  .  .  Safe  at  anchor  once  more  off  Pennduffryn,  and  as 
there  is  a  crowd  of  guests  ashore,  we  shall  sleep  aboard  to- 
night, and  sail  early  for  Tulagi,  for  our  mail  is  being  held 
there  for  us. 

The  cruise  came  near  a  disastrous  ending.  After  dark, 
and  before  the  moon  rose,  we  headed  in  for  what  tallied  with 
the  signal  lights  we  knew  so  well,  and  in  relation  to  which 
we  knew  our  anchorage  perfectly.  We  discovered,  and  none 
too  quickly,  that  we  were  at  Boucher 's  Plantation,  some  miles 
to  the  west,  and  that  he  had  adopted  the  same  system  of 
lanterns — rather  a  disturbing  factor  on  this  perilous  coast, 
where  the  Pennduffryn  lights  are  the  only  ones  described  in 
the  Admiralty  Directory.  The  warm  night  seemed  suddenly 
to  chill  when  we  found  our  position,  but,  all  working  in  uni- 
son, we  swung  around  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  and  soon 
afterward  rumbled  down  the  anchor  in  its  old  place  off  the 
tiny  quay  at  Pennduffryn.  A  ghostly  schooner,  the  Lily, 
rustled  by  under  sweeps  in  the  misty  moonlight,  and  passed 
the  word  o'  night. 


THE  ENDING 

THERE  is  little  more  to  tell.  We  did  not  dream  that 
these  were  our  last  hours  of  travel  on  the  Snark.  The 
three  weeks  at  Pennduffryn  we  put  in  busily  despite  illness. 
Days  were  spent  in  the  shady  grove  of  piles  under  the  build- 
ings, sorting,  labelling  and  packing  in  great  cases  our  vast 
accumulation  of  Melanesian  curios  for  shipment.  Jack  wrote 
daily,  except  when  the  violence  of  fever  attacks  laid  him 
low.  His  various  ailments  grew  steadily  worse.  His  hands 
alone  were  enough  to  drive  a  man  wild — eleven  skins  peeling 
off  simultaneously,  one  above  another.  Out  of  my  own 
fever,  and  the  anaemic  and  neurasthenic  condition  I  had 
fallen  into,  augmented  by  worry  over  Jack,  came  moods  of 
despondency,  most  unlike  my  happy-go-lucky  wont.  And 
instead  of  inviting  repose,  I  foolishly  worked  harder  than 
ever,  and  developed  a  siege  of  insomnia. 

The  life  of  the  plantation  at  this  stage  in  its  downfall  would 
make  a  romantic  story  in  itself.  The  little  Spanish  Baroness 
Eugenie,  Mrs.  Harding,  who  had  returned  from  Sydney,  hid 
under  forced  gaiety,  innate  charm  and  loveableness,  and  the 
most  enchanting  of  wardrobes,  the  tragedy  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  her  own  fortune  as  well  as  her  husband's  and  Dar- 
bishire  's.  When  she  married  Harding,  in  South  America,  she 
forfeited  all  but  her  title,  the  baronial  jewels,  and  a  mere 
modicum  of  her  rightful  fortune ;  and  the  latter  had  melted 
away  in  the  failing  plantation. 

"I  will  show  you  my  coronet  and  jewels  some  day,"  she 
mused,  in  a  confidential  moment,  her  incredibly  large  black 
eyes  very  wide.  ' '  They  are  in  the  Bank — and  I  cannot  sell 
them,  alas!" 

The  entertainment  was  lavish — perhaps  this  sort  of  thing 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  failure  to  make  things  go ;  but  they 

480 


Snark  Careened  at  Meringe 


The  Rembrandt  Skipper 


A.    Polvnpsifln 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  481 

died  game  and  gay,  all  of  them.  Two  dining-rooms  ran  full 
blast.  The  house  was  packed,  among  the  guests  being  three 
men  of  different  nationalities,  taking  moving  pictures  for 
Pathe  Freres,  and  at  many  a  meal  eight  languages  were 
spoken — all  of  which  Mrs.  Harding  understood,  even  to 
Swedish,  and  nothing  could  be  passed  about  and  escape  her 
quick  ear  and  brain.  There  were  fancy  dress  and  masquerade 
evenings,  horseback  rides,  musicales,  all  night  poker,  billiards 
— anything  and  everything  that  two  women  and  a  dozen  men 
could  devise  to  enliven  a  house  party,  and  make  every  one 
forget  that  the  establishment  was  in  its  last  days.  It  was 
admirable,  and  very  pathetic.  And  splendidly  English. 

The  schooner  Eugenie  had  been  chartered  for  Bellona  and 
Beimel  by  some  nitrate  people,  and  had  never  returned  to 
the  Minota  at  Malu.  The  mate  of  the  Minota,  who  had  now 
left  her,  told  us  the  ketch  had  got  safely  away  for  Tulagi  for 
stores,  thence  to  Meringe ;  and  he  further  reported  that  Cap- 
tain Jansen  had  been  "wild"  when  he  discovered  Peggy 's 
loss,  but  had  been  pacified  when  he  read  my  letter.  When 
he  came  to  Pennduffryn,  before  we  sailed  for  Sydney,  he 
formally  presented  me  with  what  he  could  see  was  entirely 
mine  own,  saying,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  Dutch  blue  €yes: 

"She's  spoiled  for  a  nigger  chaser  anyway,  now.  My 
word!  I  couldn't  make  anything  out  of  such  a  lady's- 
dog!" 

Peggy  helped  me  wondrously  through  all  those  feverish, 
sick  days  in  the  hot  northwest  season.  Never  a  night,  no 
matter  how  late,  did  I  leave  the  drawing-room,  but  the  little 
velvet  form,  outside  on  the  porch,  was  pressing  against  me, 
seeing  me  to  my  netted  cot  in  the  grass  bathroom  on  stilts. 
No  awkward  age  was  ever  hers;  she  was  a  thing  with  the 
grace  of  God  in  her,  mentally  and  materially.  And  she  gave 
all  her  big  and  gallant  soul  in  love. 

With  Captain  Jansen,  on  the  Minota,  came  Wada,  landed 
back  upon  us  despite  his  wishes  or  ours,  by  the  very 
law  of  the  land.  He  could  not  stay  in  the  islands  because 
no  one  would  be  responsible  for  him;  he  could  not  leave, 


482  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

because  there  was  no  one  to  put  up  the  hundred  pounds  bond 
required  in  Australia  on  any  dark  skin.  Mr.  Schroeder,  to 
save  the  boy's  life  when  he  was  very  low  with  fever  in  a 
native  hut,  took  him  in,  and  when  he  was  better,  had  him 
cook,  without  wages,  until  the  first  chance  to  get  him  away 
from  Ysabel,  which  was  on  the  Minota,  where  in  the  galley  he 
worked  his  passage.  Meekly  he  came  aboard  the  Snark  to 
cook  without  wages  until  such  time  as  we  should  return  from 
Sydney,  and  sail  to  some  port  where  he  could  take  leave 
freely. 

How  blindly  we  plan.  How  little  we  thought,  that  starry, 
musky  night  under  the  Southern  Cross,  when  we  paid  our 
farewell  call  on  the  Snark — now  in  charge  of  the  Minota' s 
mate — that  this  would  be  the  last  time  we  should  ever  descend 
her  teak  gangway  ladder  in  these  waters. 

Martin  as  well  as  Nakata  took  steamer  for  Sydney,  as  there 
was  purchasing  for  him  to  attend  to,  and  he  wanted  to  see 
doctors  himself.  Jack  and  I,  in  Captain  Mortimer's  roomy 
quarters,  actually  loafed .  on  the  twelve  days  of  the  M a- 
kambo's  stormy  voyage  to  Sydney,  both  of  us  suffering 
greatly  and  additionally  from  a  prickly  heat  that  boiled  up 
in  a  fiery  rash  which  in  turn  burst  into  water. 

During  the  five  weeks  when  Jack  lay  in  a  private  hospital 
in  North  Sydney  after  an  operation  for,  not  one  fistula,  but 
two,  his  surgeon,  Dr.  Clarence  Read,  flanked  by  several  skin 
specialists,  puzzled  and  studied  and  theorised  over  his  pitiful 
hands,  the  like  of  which  they  had  never  seen  nor  even  heard. 
All  agreed  that  the  trouble  was  non-parasitic,  and  there- 
fore concluded  that  it  was  entirely  of  nervous  origin.  And 
a  different  skin  malady  showed  on  his  elbows,  which  they 
recognised  as  psoriasis,  truly  and  actually  the  leprosy 
of  the  Bible,  the  ' '  silvery  skin, ' '  cures  of  which  occur  spon- 
taneously, but  of  which  no  other  cure  is  known. 

One  day,  during  my  reading  aloud  to  the  convalescent,  I 
said  tentatively — and  it  had  taken  much  thought  and  self- 
abnegation  to  come  to  it: 

"If  you  think  we'd  better  give  up  the  Snark  voyage  ..." 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  483 

' '  Oh,  nothing  like  that, ' '  Jack  answered  brightly.  ' l  We  're 
going  around  the  world  in  the  Snark,  you  know. ' ' 

But  the  unhealing  weeks  went  by,  and  one  day  Jack  gave 
me  the  result  of  his  consideration  of  his  case:  that  the  one 
thing  that  would  set  him  straight  would  be  to  return  once 
more  to  his  own  habitat,  to  California,  where  his  nerve  equi- 
librium had  always  been  stable.  This,  of  course,  meant  the 
ending  of  our  voyage.  Although  I  had  not  ceased  from 
thinking  along  these  lines,  the  actual  facing  of  the  issue  was 
too  much  in  the  low  state  of  my  nerves,  and  I  broke  down 
and  sobbed  unrestrainedly.  This  precipitated  fever,  and  for 
days  I  lay  in  a  little  bed  in  the  same  room  with  Jack. 

In  short,  Martin  was  sent  back  to  the  Solomons,  accom- 
panied by  an  old  skipper,  Captain  Reed,  to  bring  the  yacht 
to  Sydney,  where  she  would  be  put  up  for  sale. 

In  the  meantime,  we  rented  an  apartment  in  Sydney,  and 
worked  and  played  as  best  we  might,  among  other  trips  taking 
in  the  wonderful  Jenolan  Caves.  But  it  was  not  all  pleasure, 
for  Jack's  hands  did  not  improve,  but  went  on  swelling  and 
peeling  prodigiously.  The  only  relief  was  in  massage,  which 
caused  them  to  break  into  wringing  perspiration.  His  toe- 
nails  became  affected,  growing  as  thick  as  their  length  in 
twenty-four  hours,  when  he  would  file  them  down,  only  to 
have  a  recurrence. 

We  tried  Tasmania,  visited  Hobart  Town,  and  spent  a 
month  in  a  cool  hotel  resort  at  Brown's  River,  where  the 
country  was  very  like  California,  and  our  general  tone  was 
better  for  the  time  being. 

We  had  been  back  in  Sydney  for  some  time  when  the  Snark 
arrived,  all  hands  alive  and  well,  except  .  .  . 

Neither  Martin  nor  Captain  Reed  had  the  courage  or  heart 
to  bring  the  tidings,  so  the  little  old  skipper  wrote : 

' '  I  am  very  sorry  to  report  that  your  little  dog  Peggy  died 
off  Bellona  and  Rennel,  three  days  out  from  the  Solomons." 

I  do  not  think  Jack  is  ashamed  of  the  tears  he  shed  with 
me  that  night.  She  was  too  good  to  be  true,  Peggy,  dear 
heart,  dear  heart.  I  cannot,  must  not  say  much  .  .  .  only 


484  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

.  .  .  the  day  before  she  died,  wan  and  weak  she  came  and 
sat  before  Martin,  as  she  had  sat  before  me  that  last  day 
going  back  to  Pennduffryn,  and  looked  long  and  questioningly 
into  his  face  with  her  dolorous  eyes.  I  know,  Jack  knows 
.  .  .  she  was  asking  for  him,  for  me,  some  word,  some  mes- 
sage, trying,  at  the  end  of  her  blameless  days,  to  pass  across 
all  space  and  difference  of  kind,  her  deathless  faith.  I  have 
claimed  much  for  Peggy  .  .  .  not  too  much,  I  swear,  for 
those  few  who  have  known  such  a  creature — if  there  could 
be  another — and  who  will  understand,  quite. 

It  was  a  terrible  strain,  going  daily  to  the  Snark  on  a  little 
ferry  boat,  to  oversee  the  packing  of  gear  that  we  were  send- 
ing home.  I  know  I  shed  tears  during  each  return  trip.  I 
blush  to  think  how  little  of  help  I  was  to  Jack  in  the  matter 
of  cheer ;  but  he  says  that  out  of  it  all  he  gathered  the  great- 
est proof  of  the  success  of  the  Snark  adventure,  that  the  one 
small  woman,  frail  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  husky  men, 
should  be  so  broken  at  the  abandonment  of  the  voyage. 

Martin  continued  on  around  the  world  by  devious  ways. 
Wada  sailed  as  cook  on  some  outgoing  steamer.  Henry  and 
Tehei  returned  to  the  Society  Islands ;  but  Nakata  went  with 
Jack  and  me  from  Newcastle,  N.S.W.,  one  fine  day,  on  an 
English  tramp,  the  Tymeric,  Captain  Macllwaine,  bound 
with  " coals  from  Newcastle"  to  Guayaquil,  Ecuador.  We 
were  glad  her  orders  were  changed  at  the  last  moment  and 
that  we  were  to  have  a  final  flare  of  adventure  in  a  new  coun- 
try before  reaching  home.  Jack's  general  health  benefited 
by  the  voyage,  and  he  was  able  to  box  lustily  with  the  three 
sturdy  young  English  officers.  But  I  fell  from  one  fever  fit 
into  another,  during  a  many  days'  gale  early  in  the  passage, 
and  this  weakened  me  sadly.  However,  the  forty-three  days 
in  the  tramp  were  an  experience  worth  having. 

One  last  link  of  our  South  Sea  chain  we  picked  up  one 
morning  at  sunrise,  when  a  squall-curtain  lifted  and  parted 
over  Pitcairn  Island,  high  and  sheer,  green  and  gold  and 
unreal  in  the  rainbow  shimmer.  I  looked  out  of  my  porthole 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  485 

with  sick  eyes  of  disappointment  as  my  fancy  wandered  north- 
west over  a  thousand  miles  of  the  Paumotus,  of  which  Pit- 
cairn  is  the  one  high,  last,  southern  sentinel.  Then  in  the 
fever  I  slept  and  dreamed  we  put  out  in  a  boat  from  the 
Tymeric  and  found  a  bay  (that  does  not  exist)  inside  the 
breakers,  and  went  in  and  landed.  Awakening  with  a  start, 
I  turned  quickly  to  the  porthole.  It  was  still  there — I  had 
dozed  but  a  moment — a  sun-shot  emerald,  with  the  grey  velvet 
pall  of  mist  falling,  falling,  until  it  was  blotted  out.  Isle  of 
my  dreams,  waking  and  sleeping — when  shall  I  see  you,  or 
any  one  of  you,  again ! 

"We  crossed  the  Andes,  on  the  side  of  old  Chimborazo  itself, 
at  an  altitude  of  12,000  feet,  the  summit  white  and  stark 
10,000  feet  above,  to  Quito,  10,000  feet  in  the  air.  After  a 
month  altogether  in  Ecuador,  in  which  we  escaped  the  ram- 
pant yellow  fever,  malaria,  pneumonia,  smallpox,  bubonic 
plague,  bacillary  dysentery,  and  several  other  perils  (not 
the  least  of  which  was  an  accident  on  the  wonderful  railway, 
of  which  we  saw  two  frightful  examples),  we  sailed  for  New 
Orleans,  per  Canal  Zone,  celebrating  the  Fourth  of  July, 
1909,  in  true  American  fashion  at  Panama. 

Nakata,  our  little  rock  of  ages  in  all  sickness  and  stress, 
was  in  due  time  safely  entered  into  the  United  States,  with 
less  pow-wow  than  we  had  expected,  to  our  mutual  rejoicing. 

Steadily,  rapidly,  Jack  won  back  to  health  in  his  Califor- 
nia environment.  In  a  very  few  months  not  a  trace  of  any 
of  his  curious  maladies  remained,  glory  be.  But  to  his  ana- 
lytical mind  the  greatest  cause  for  congratulation  is  that  he 
found  out  what  was  the  matter  with  his  hands.  He  came 
across  a  book  by  Lieutenant  Colonel  Charles  E.  Woodruff  of 
the  United  States  Army,  entitled  Effects  of  Tropical  Light  on 
White  Men.  We  later  met  Colonel  Woodruff  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  he  told  us  he  had  been  similarly  afflicted,  and  had 
had  the  same  experience  with  physicians.  They  sat  on  his 
case,  and  could  come  to  no  conclusion.  It  is  very  simple. 
Both  he  and  Jack,  and  there  must  be  many  others  whom  we 


486  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK 

have  not  met,  have  a  strong  predisposition  toward  the  tissue- 
destructiveness  of  tropical  light.  The  ultra-violet  rays  tear 
them  to  pieces,  just  as  so  many  experimenters  with  the  X-ray 
were  torn  to  pieces  before  they  learned  to  protect  themselves. 
I  continued  to  suffer  severe  but  lessening  attacks  of  fever 
for  nearly  a  year,  and  it  took  almost  as  long  to  recover  my 
balance  of  nerves.  The  last  touch  of  fever  I  ever  felt  waa 
when,  in  June,  1910,  after  fulfilling  the  godspeed  of  the  sweet 
vahines  of  Polynesia,  I  lost  my  girl  baby,  Joy. 

The  Snark  was  sold  long  afterward,  for  a  mere  fraction  of 
her  cost,  to  an  English  syndicate  which  operated  her,  trad- 
ing and  recruiting,  in  the  New  Hebrides.  The  next  we 
heard,  she  was  sealing  in  Bering  Sea,  and  later  on  we  met 
several  persons  who  had  been  aboard  of  her  at  Kodiak, 
Alaska,  in  1911,  while  one  told  us  he  had  subsequently  seen 
her  at  Seattle,  in  August,  1912 — painted  green!  Jack  and 
I,  landing  in  Seattle  the  month  previous,  from  a  five-months' 
wind-jamming  voyage  from  Baltimore  around  Cape  Horn 
on  the  Sewall  ship  Dirigo,  thus  narrowly  missed  meeting  up 
with  our  little  old  boat  of  dreams.  I  dare  not  think  how  it 
would  have  affected  me. 

It  was  not  until  we  had  returned  to  California,  after  the 
voyage  of  the  Snark  was  over,  that  we  learned  that  the  much 
sinned-against  craft  had  been  built  two  feet  shorter  than  her 
specifications  called  for — this  in  addition  to  the  extra  two 
feet  draft.  The  marvel  is  that  she  sailed  as  well  as  she  did. 

Now,  one  word:  Jack  has  been  severely  and  ignorantly 
criticised  by  untravelled  book  reviewers  for  the  unreality 
and  unveracity  of  his  tales  of  the  cannibal  countries  we  vis- 
ited, such  as  his  novel  Adventure.  And  yet,  in  this  Year 
of  Our  Lord,  1915,  quite  fresh  in  our  minds  is  the  report 
lately  come  to  hand  that  Captain  Keller  of  the  Eugenie, 
who  came  to  our  rescue  on  the  Malaita  coast,  and  Claude 
Bernays  of  Pennduffryn  Plantation,  both  lost  th^ir  bon- 
nie  handsome  heads  in  the  Solomons,  the  former  aboard.  r_i$f 
vessel,  the  second  on  his  own  plantation.  Poor  Darbishire 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SNARK  487 

died  of  dysentery  in  the  Gilbert  Group  only  last  year,  leav- 
ing a  young  English  wife  and  a  fine  boy. 

It  is  all  a  sweet  memory  to  Jack  and  me,  our  life  on  the 
Snark,  and  Martin  and  Nakata  swear  allegiance  to  any  new 
venture  we  may  pursue.  There  is  now  a  little  Mrs.  Martin 
who  also  wishes  to  be  counted  in. 

And,  believe  it  or  not,  ye  of  little  faith  in  the  joy  that  was 
ours  on  the  voyage,  our  one  ultimate  hope  of  earthly  bliss 
is  to  fit  out  another  and  larger  boat,  and  do  it  all  over  again, 
and  more — and  do  it  more  leisurely,  more  wisely  under  the 
tropic  sun. 


THE   END 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


*HE   following    pages    contain    advertisements    of 
books  by  the  same  author  or  on  kindred  subjects. 


The  Cruise  of  the  Snark 

BY  JACK  LONDON 

Author    of    "The    Call    of   the   Wild,"    "The    Sea-Wolf,"    "The    Scarlet 
Plague,"  etc. 

Illustrated  with  over  150  halftones  from  photographs  by  the  author,  and  a 
frontispiece  in  colors. 

Decorated  cloth,  8vo,  $2.00 

One  of  the  most  adventurous  voyages  ever  planned  was  that  of 
Mr.  London's  famous  Snark,  the  little  craft  in  which  he  and  Mrs. 
London  set  forth  to  sail  around  the  world.  Mr.  London  has  told 
the  story  in  a  fashion  to  bring  out  all  the  excitement  of  the  cruise. 

Those  who  have  read  Mrs.  London's  sparkling  Log  of  the  Snark 
will  enjoy  Mr.  London's  Cruise  of  the  Snark  as  well. 

''Deserves  an  honourable  place  in  the  literature  of  travel  and 
adventure." — Outlook. 

"Nowhere  is  it  without  that  insistent  touch  of  personality  that 
makes  everything  from  Mr.  London's  pen  irresistible." 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"In  Mr.  London's  most  rapid  and  vivid  style."— N.  Y.  World. 

"A  delight."— Philadelphia  Ledger. 


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ILLUSTRATED  BOOKS  OF  TRAVEL 


Highways  and  Byways  of  New  England 

BY  CLIFTON  JOHNSON 

Author    of    "  Highways    and    Byways    of    the    South,"    "  The    Picturesque 
Hudson,"   etc. 

Illustrated,  decorated  cloth,  I2tno 

This  volume  describes  the  characteristic,  picturesque  and  his- 
torically attractive  regions  in  the  states  of  Maine,  New  Hamp- 
shire, Vermont,  Massachusetts,  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island. 
Among  the  interesting  chapter  titles  are:  In  the  Maine  Woods, 
Artemus  Ward's  Town,  June  in  the  White  Mountains,  August  in 
the  Berkshire  Hills,  The  Land  of  the  Minute  Men,  Autumn  on 
Cape  Cod  and  Shad  Time  on  the  Connecticut,  concluding  with 
Glimpses  of  Life.  The  illustrations,  of  which  there  are  many  and 
which  are  reproduced  from  photographs  taken  by  the  author,  main- 
tain the  standard  established  by  the  pictures  in  his  previous  works. 


Through  the  Grand  Canyon  from  Wyoming 
to  Mexico. 

BY  ELLSWORTH  L.  KOLB 

With  a  preface  by  Owen  Wister.     New  edition,  with  additional 
illustrations. 

Cloth,  8vo 

Mr.  Kolb's  absorbing  narrative  of  the  trip  which  he  made 
through  the  Grand  Canyon  in  a  rowboat  with  photographic  ap- 
paratus has,  since  its  publication  about  a  year  ago,  met  with  very 
general  commendation.  It  has  been  described  as  the  most  fas- 
cinating adventure  story  ever  written.  It  is  here  re-issued  with 
minor  changes  in  the  text  and  with  twenty-four  new  half-tone 
plates,  bringing  the  total  number  of  insets  up  to  seventy-two. 


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The  Star  Rover 

BY  JACK  LONDON 

Author  of  "  The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  "  The  Sea  Wolf,"  "  The  Mutiny  of  the 
Elsinore,"  etc.     With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Jay  Hambidge. 

Cloth,  jsmo 

Daring  in  its  theme  and  vivid  in  execution,  this  is  one  of  the  most 
original  and  gripping  stories  Mr.  London  has  ever  written.  The 
fundamental  idea  upon  which  the  plot  rests  —  the  supremacy  of  mind 
over  body  —  has  served  to  inspire  writers  before,  but  rarely,  if  indeed 
ever,  has  it  been  employed  as  strikingly  or  with  as  much  success  as 
in  this  book.  With  a  wealth  of  coloring  and  detail  the  author  tells 
of  what  came  of  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  hero  to  free  his  spirit 
from  his  body,  of  the  wonderful  adventures  this  "  star  rover "  had, 
adventures  covering  long  lapses  of  years  and  introducing  strange 
people  in  stranger  lands.  It  is  a  work  that  will  make  as  lasting  an 
impression  upon  the  reader  as  did  The  Sea  Wolf  and  The  Call  of 
the  Wild. 

Heart's  Kindred 

BY  ZONA  GALE 

Author  of  "  Christmas,"  "  The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mt 

There  is  much  of  timely  significance  in  Miss  Gale's  new  book. 
For  example,  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  powerful  of  its  scenes 
takes  place  at  a  meeting  of  the  Women's  Peace  Congress  and  in  the 
course  of  the  action  there  are  introduced  bits  of  the  actual  speeches 
delivered  at  the  most  recent  session  of  this  congress.  But  Hearts 
Kindred  is  not  merely  a  plea  for  peace ;  it  is  rather  the  story  of  the 
making  of  a  man  —  and  of  the  rounding  out  of  a  woman's  character, 
too.  In  the  rough,  unpolished,  but  thoroughly  sincere  Westerner  and 
the  attractive  young  woman  who  brings  out  the  good  in  the  man's 
nature,  Miss  Gale  has  two  as  absorbing  people  as  she  has  ever  created. 
In  Hearfs  Kindred  is  reflected  that  humanness  and  breadth  of 
vision  which  was  first  found  in  Friendship  Village  and  The  Loves  of 
Pelleas  and  Etarre  and  made  Miss  Gale  loved  far  and  wide. 


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The  Research  Magnificent 

BY  H.  G.  WELLS 
Author  of  "  The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman,"  etc. 

Cloth,  izvno 

A  book  of  real  distinction  is  this  novel  from  the  pen  of  an 
author  whose  popularity  in  America  is  no  less  than  in  his  native 
England,  where  he  is  put  in  the  front  rank  of  present-day  writers. 
The  Research  Magnificent  is  pronounced  by  those  critics  who 
have  read  it  to  be  the  best  work  that  Mr.  Wells  has  done,  realis- 
ing fully  the  promises  of  greatness  which  not  a  few  have  found 
in  its  immediate  predecessors.  The  author's  theme — the  research 
magnificent — is  the  story  of  one  man's  search  for  the  kingly 
life.  A  subject  such  as  this  is  one  peculiarly  suited  to  Mr. 
Wells's  literary  genius,  and  he  has  handled  it  with  the  skill,  the 
feeling,  the  vision,  which  it  requires. 

"A  book  with  the  whole  world  for  background." 


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Old  Delabole 

BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Author  of  "  Brunei's  Tower,"  etc. 


Cloth,  tamo 


A  critic  in  reviewing  Brunei's  Tower  remarked  that  it  would  seem  that  Eden 
Phillpotts  was  now  doing  the  best  work  of  his  career.  There  was  sufficient  argument 
for  this  contention  in  the  novel  then  under  consideration  and  further  demonstration  of 
its  truth  is  found  in  Old  Delabole,  which,  because  of  its  cheerful  and  wise  philosophy 
and  its  splendid  feeling  for  nature  and  man's  relation  to  it,  will  perhaps  ultimately 
take  its  place  as  its  author's  best.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Cornwall.  Delabole  is  a 
slate  mining  town  and  the  tale  which  Mr.  Phillpotts  tells  against  it  as  a  background, 
one  in  which  a  matter  of  honor  or  of  conscience  is  the  pivot,  is  dramatic  in  situation 
and  doubly  interesting  because  of  the  moral  problem  which  it  presents.  Mr. 
Phillpotts's  artistry  and  keen  perception  of  those  motives  which  actuate  conduct 
have  never  been  better  exhibited. 


God's  Puppets 


BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

Author  of  "A  Certain  Rich  Man." 


Cloth,  I2tno 


Here  are  brought  together  a  number  of  the  more  notable  short  stories  by 
one  whose  reputation  in  this  field  is  as  great  as  in  the  novel  form  —  for  has  Mr. 
White  not  delighted  thousands  of  readers  with  The  Court  of  Boyville  and  In.  Our 
Town,  short  intimate  studies  of  life  at  first  hand  which,  while  quite  different 
from  the  material  in  the  new  volume,  nevertheless  show  mastery  of  the  art?  Mr. 
White  is  a  slow  and  careful  writer,  a  fact  to  which  the  long  intervals  between  his  books 
bear  witness,  but  each  work  has  proved  itself  worth  waiting  for,  and  God's  Puffets 
will  be  found  no  exception.  It  gives  us  of  the  best  of  his  creative  genius. 


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